I Am Not Coming Home

  I can't tell if I am fed up with this or bored. I can't tell if this is stability or numbness to chaotic mess. I can't tell if this is a turning point or one of those scenes which ends with "oh, just kidding!" The only thing I can tell and ensure: I am not coming home. At least not tonight.

  Is it a farewell or a teenage version of rebellion? Don't know either. I will never know anything. Maybe why I am leaving the place is about how random I am. Maybe cause I am fond of new waves showering my interests. You take advantage of this and manipulate me. You invite me in and tell me "I will teach you something new." I get in and I find myself surrounded by dark walls with no windows nor even the door I got through, is there. You always trick me! I don't know how I get rescued every time, and I don't know how I can realize this now.

  I am not coming home for what you want me to be. You're claiming that you're helping me out, but you're actually keeping me out of sight. You told me I've got the gift. I've got the talent. I have got it all. Funny you never spoke about how I can water those gifts of mine, so we both can harvest their fruits.

  I am not coming home ever again. I know I will obligatorily return one day. Until this day comes, I will keep my distance away from you. I'll do my best; so when I return, I will be satisfied and ready for your confrontation. So when I return, I will give you all the reasons why I didn't stay when I actually had the choice to leave.

   I will work and love what I am doing. I will see what you told me about the outside world, so when I return, I'll narrate to you how I got over all the obstacles. I will search and feed myself with every spectacular fact about this world for my hungry soul - to quit asking for more, to reach modesty and humbleness. I will tell you I got it all in hand and taught everyone else what good deeds are. I will come back home obligatorily, but naked. You will laugh at me saying "you should have laid here till your day comes when you'd be officially my resident," then I would surprise you with to whom I gave my all. That I gave all I could win to another who is in need. That I collected all the honors which would make your dark walls decorated with cheerful neon lights instead.

  Remember when you said stay here and enjoy my friends' mourns by your door? Remember when you told me to stay in here and you would give me bitter coldness, cause warmth is charges of jealousy radiating nothing more? Well, I will come back and tell you I was the source of warmth, not because of jealousy, but because I was source of joy and hope. I will tell you I went to my friends and told them never mourn over a friend; let's pick him up and oblige him to join our journey towards success. Towards something worth narrating when the air would be carrying our ashes.

  I am telling you. I am not coming home. Even the name on you, isn't mine. It belongs to a dear one to me though. But to pay respect to that person I love – whose place is ruled by you - I tell you: when my soul is stolen by fate and a full stop is written in my biography, it's the only day I will come back and sleep endlessly. Mr. Grave, God gave me a life whose end will be at your place. Now I've a spirit. A breath. A beating heart. So, you're not my place. I can't deny how grateful I am for giving shelter to my sadness. It grew mature, but eventually it taught me something I can't export. It's a part of me and it's not dead. But from time to time I have to show my sadness that it has friends out there. The same state, different story, but the same rush of feelings. Mr. Grave, I will come. It's obligatory for every living organism to be your guest. I just pray when I arrive, I arrive in a modest fashion. Naked as I was brought to this life, bragging "everything I owned in life, I gave it away to another. My legacy would be words and inspiration." You will ask me "where are the things life has given you?" I will tell you proudly that I am an honest pal who gives things to its original owner. We'll laugh and hug till you will be forced to let me go to meet the greatest trials of all. But for now, I am not coming home. Please, let your lawyers, depression and hopelessness, leave me alone. I am not coming home.

Fairy

  At a certain time in her life, all her dreams were crowding at the bus station of her fate. Which could take a seat first, was a matter of panic. She knew the bus would come anyway, and not all dreams would ride along. She had one in specific though. She had the dream of "super identity" as the priority, the most important on mind, but unfortunately, that dream in specific was the laziest of them all. It seemed standing careless and laughing at the rest of the dreams. It said proudly "I would throw myself on this road once I see the bus coming, so I won't be stained by the disgrace of such competition."

  She never understood why a part of her, a dream of her own creation, could be so mean. She wanted it so bad on this bus. She wished she had a fairy to whom she would whisper her wishes and would come true. It happened. Yes, the fairy appeared.

   For the poor girl, the lady was a fairy at first, but afterwards she realized she was having a deal with the devil. The fairy told her "this one and only dream of yours, I can make it ride along. All the way. Under one condition: you give me all the rest of your dreams."
"But these are all I have got," she said breathlessly.
"Then, as a fortuneteller, I have to tell you what you want can never be yours except you give up all you have."
"This is quite my theory. But…"
"The bus is getting closer," giggled the fairy.
"Deal!"

  Her soul was celebrating while her mental state was in confusion. She was sure of what she had done. She was sure it was good for her identity, but would never be good for her peace of mind. She knew it was a bloody sacrifice, but she thought it was a good giveaway so she would have eternal respect in return.

  The bus ride wasn't good. By every station, she saw the fairy giving generously, to the passersby, the girl's wasted dreams. To people who could never value these. People who already in no need to have dreams, cause how real their practical life was, got them blind. It was heartbreaking.

  The eternal-respected-identity dream sat beside the shocked girl, smoking cigarettes of ugh-s. She could feel the hatred radiating out of it. She cried to it begging for mercy. She reminded it that she had created it in the first place. She screamed that she sacrificed all what she loved for it. The dream wouldn't believe how perfect actress she was to play the role of a prey.

  The dream broke its silent sarcastic gestures, saying: "What would you do if I stepped out of this bus right now? Shattered in pieces out of this window. What would you do? You would regret whatever you're saying now. You would weep over 'I should have been grateful' scene. You may stop regretting and look ahead till you get that certificate to win "fake respect," and I shall disappear forever! Till another kid relive your dream and I'd join the ride again and again. Scarcely do I find people with different aim. Usually, people want me, because I am a beautiful dream. But I am always a piece of paper. To all of you! No one tries – even tries to find the spirituality, beauty and uniqueness in me. Everybody does like you do, blames me for their own choices while I tried hard to make you hate me. I didn't want to feel hurt or let my owner feel the same pain."

  The girl wished she had never seen the fairy. She imagined if she had one of the other dreams with her, all her scars would have been glittery stickers. Quickly she realized that there had to be a missing puzzle. She would have scored the highest grades, but she wouldn't have the same loyal company. She would have had a man, but she would have had neither identity nor friends. She would have had herself, but she would have lost all who counted on her.

  Fairies and their participation in the game of fate, isn't mean. In fact they facilitate the process. They are actually letting go of their sweet reputation, to lessen the burden of blames towards yourself and drive you to throw those blames on them. Beautiful creatures, aren't they?

   Whatever dream you choose, there's another one you're throwing for someone else to adopt. Your life wouldn't have been better if the company was different. It would have its own downs with equal severity, but this version is the only one you can handle. So be grateful. 

Dark Utopia

  I want a ticket to Utopia. I am not waiting for winning it from a lottery. I am not adding it to my bucket list, either. My Utopia doesn't exist in Hawaii. It doesn't exist  in those beautiful islands in the middle of the ocean. It exists in a dark place. Lonely. Its bottom belongs to mother Earth, its top is a whole other planet. I don't want my eyes to roll on the ground to have a look on grass, trees and sand -with all due love to that view. But, I want my eyes to fly. I want it to sway in space, against gravity. I want my soul to drift away with that thin thread magnetized to me, and I keep playing with it like a marionette.

  My Utopia wouldn't be sunny greenish land. It's dark. It's on the top of a mountain, surrounded by dark clouds. I'd stand on the peak. I'd scream, not like a scared girl, but like an angry riot. I'd smile to myself. I'd tear out of happiness I'd feel, because of that freedom I'd touch through the blowing wind. My tears would freeze. My nose would produce warmth all over my face as it gets reddish. I'd laugh out of the madness of this mixture of feelings. I'd shout out all the sorrowful memories. No more whispers. I'd sit and let my eyes jump off this cliff and sink in the beauty of the scene. The green landscape, the sparkling water, the neighboring icy caps of the high mountains, the rocky floor beneath me and the distant sandy spots. Then I'd lift my eyes up high to see how close I am to the sky. The heavy clouds, the sun which keeps visiting from a minute to another and the moon which is too shy to shine in the morning and hard to be its accompany in the presence of these blocking clouds.

  Actually, I don't think my urge to abuse this moment of sweet loneliness would let me sit for long. I would stand and let the wind dive into my hair, tickle my frozen lashes, and try hopelessly to dig into my thick clothes. The voices would sing lullabies to me. Some of them would reply to my worries. Some of them would laugh along with me. Some of them would bring funny moments I had on that planet Earth one day. Some of them would ring the bells on my heart and crave into it the names of people missed, to give them a visit as soon as I'm off this Utopia. Some of them will wash my brain and alert it that life can't be about Utopia. Life can't be comforting. If life would be pure, with no worries, no pain, no madness, so what would heaven be like?

  My dark Utopia isn't sad. It isn't pathetic. It isn't an emo land. My dark Utopia is the thoughts you and I are buried in. If we envisioned them as a place, it would be entertaining. If we kept envisioning it as a knife stuck in our backs, the pain will never end; you'd be like a soul belongs to a dead body which couldn't see the light to settle in its home.

  Utopia doesn't have to be magical. It can be your drawings, your piece of writing or your cover for your favorite song. Utopia can be the invisible angel on your shoulder. It can be anywhere. You create it, you find it.