Cloud is nothing to compare with what I’ve been through to be with you

on the way to the rig

Or what I’ll be through.

To be home. To be a home.


Gypsies’ Lies

A: What if the gypsies lied about everything?
B: What everything?
A: About their history and how they did the pottery; about the flower pots on the wall and the flamenco bar; about the schist, gneiss and the whole museo; about this journey and the stars; about our future.
DSC_0919 B: Their history was mystery, so was the pottery. The schist and gneiss were perfectly described; aren’t we both geologists? The whole museo was nice. I’m not sure about the flamenco bar, but when did you start to worry about flamenco bar?
DSC_0920 A: It’s not about the flamenco bar. It’s about particular lies along a journey.
B: Why are you so scared about lies?
A: Because they are beautiful; they get me blinded. Because they are breathtaking yet heart-exploding.

(After Sacromonte, Granada)

Don’t Promise to Grow Old with Me

On Her Way Home

Don’t promise we’d spend the rest of our every evening with teapots of coffee, with low light, listening you writing songs about me and your old stories.

Don’t promise we’d survive the war or the earthquake, because there are too many men who try too hard to be important, because I already told you that Earth keeps secrets the best.

Don’t promise to come to Vietnam with me. We both are too busy. I’m jumping to the very next flight to Kenya, when monochromatic zebras are closer, and pink hippopotamus are farther.

Don’t promise that you’d be able to read me like you’re able to read the whole newspaper with its ads and its political jokes backward.

Don’t promise to stop seeing the glass half empty, the bible half misinterpreted, the skyscraper half ruined, the storm half stopped, the bread half toasted, and the women half naked.

Don’t promise to spell every Beatles’ lyric correctly in French, in Japanese, in Arabic, in PHP, or in silence. Just say, and write a letter for me later than the dawn.

Don’t promise to draw the silver linings perfectly because bright clouds aren’t good at raining, and because it’d hurt the dark designs we always have in our selfish minds.

Don’t promise to go hiking and stop the volcanoes. They are too sad to sleep too long. Too sad to lose their warmth, their weight, and the lives around. We both never know.

Don’t promise to stay or to make a home in a train or an airplane, so when you’re too tired to drive following the horizon, we’d just rest upon the yellow grass or above the golden sea.

Don’t promise to forget every promises you didn’t promise me, the way I often forget my way home, all those traffic lamps, and punctuations in your bed time poems.

Don’t promise anything in this temporary life. You and I have never been too close or too far to see the future and lifetime is never worth the wait.

(Agarina gone B.yond W.rds, from post at September 4, 2009)