No past

It’s always past, present and future.
We insist on this delimitation,
And get caught up in its tangles.
Do we realize, I wonder,
That this is not its natural state?
There are no true records of the past.
Our brains themselves can’t do it,
Can’t bring forth a snapshot of a memory.
Time is information, in a fluid state,
And what has happened before influences
What we know and let happen next.
And the more we know, the more different
We will perceive what has once been.
Once something is done, you can’t undo it,
Can’t return, or understand anymore
The state you had before it all.
Like time travel. If it works,
It will only ever be in one way.
And yet we get so hung up on the past,
Do so many things for the glory of it,
Sacrifice so much to recapture it.
Do so few of us understand it is gone,
The stepping stones turning to water
Once they have delivered you to the next?

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Because it’s special

That little red cup, chipped on the side,

The moth-eaten teddy bear falling apart,

That game to which you long lost the guide,

The drawings that are more scribble than art.

 

People surround themselves with useless things,

Forgotten trash that belongs firmly in the past

Because it’s special to them, healing slings

Symbols of things that went by too fast.

 

One man’s trash, another man’s treasure,

It’s a bit of a cliche by now perhaps

But you can’t measure memories and pleasure

What’s special to you shouldn’t be turned into scraps.

The deepest peace

Breathe in and close your eyes.

Listen to the silence and breathe out.

Breathe in, counting the heartbeats,

Feeling the way life pumps rhythmically,

And vibrate with it. Breathe out.

Breathe in. Open up your thoughts.

It’s time to understand who you are,

And who you are also comprises

What peace may mean to you.

It’s not always the same thing to all.

For some it’s unconditional acceptance,

So let your past flow through you, see it,

But don’t try to catch any of it –

Just let it fall where it may,

And love the unique patterns that it made.

For some it’s knowledge, understanding,

So grab your finest sieve and go,

Pull away and apart and together

Everything you can get your hands on,

And try to discover your inner laws,

Your force and gravity and center.

Now open your eyes and look around,

And do the very same thing with the world,

Find your place in any way you like,

Just remember that it’s about the process

Not about the end result.

Peace is the journey in spite

Of the destination. It’s the one thing

That makes a difference to you – you.

Breathe out.

I can’t pay you back

I can’t pay you back, not completely, not ever –

The world has given us different currencies

And there’s no measure that brings them together,

No way to ensure fair-play, certainties.

 

I think it was meant to work more like barter,

Exchanging things that we subjectively need,

A means to make us better, not smarter,

And paying forth, not back, should be creed.

 

Paying around could be another solution

When our means make no difference directly,

We can make elsewhere our contribution

And trust it will somehow find you correctly.

 

But certainly, the world is not made for paybacks,

It’s such a sad fate to stay and count debts

We learn, instead, to guess and fill in the cracks

And be happy with what one gives as one gets.

Gold veins

Everyone cracks into pieces sometimes –
It’s no wonder I became chipped too
But don’t expect me to hide my damage,
Ashamed and fearful of my past.
The events that shape who I am
Deserve more respect than to be ignored,
Shoved under the mat, erased, denied.
If you want you can see only the defect,
But I see the things I survived,
The things that made me stronger.
So I won’t hide my chips and cracks,
But bind them in shining gold,
Hoping, not dreading to catch your eye,
And show off my beautiful scars.
Maybe I look more fragmented now,
But I know the joints are actually
The places that will hold firmer
The next time I start to crack.
So I’m not afraid of breaking.
If anything, I’m looking forward to
The moment when I’m a crazy mingle
Of veins of cooper and silver and gold,
A work of art in tears and laughter,
The original porcelain in tiny bits,
Fragments within their mount of metal,
Each line a survival lesson in wisdom,
Turning pure china into precious stone.

Clueless pain

I sometimes envy you, my dear,
For never seeing things too clear.
I enjoy your childish pain,
Worrying when there is no gain.

Yes, I pity when you’re hollow,
But I wouldn’t jump and follow.
I got out, and I am proud.
Just if silence won’t be loud…

I do get to feel alone
On my higher golden throne.
Yes, you hurt, how won’t I know?
But it’s just you who thinks so.

It’s so innocent to suffer,
Trying to seem a bit tougher,
Hiding it but carrying such,
This is what I like so much.

It might hurt to hear rumors,
Hating them just like some tumors,
But it’s so nice, as it means
You don’t want there to be scenes.

It’s so clueless to worry
When they hurt, not feeling sorry,
Don’t feel hurt, ’cause they don’t care
Who you are and who they dare.

You are doing nothing wrong,
You don’t need to keep so strong.
And if they laugh, they will forget,
It’s just fun or just a bet.

But I love it, clueless pain,
Stormy hope, shining through rain,
Standing stress and horror mount
‘Cause you want yourself to count.

No one does. But I won’t tell;
Would hate it if your dreams fell.
And you count to who should matter,
Whose friendship won’t ever shatter.