the story of my life

i was ready to tell
the story of my life
but the ripple of tears
and the agony of my heart
wouldn't let me

i began to stutter
saying a word here and there
and all along i felt
as tender as a crystal
ready to be shattered

in this stormy sea
we call life
all the big ships
come apart
board by board

how can i survive
riding a lonely
little boat
with no oars
and no arms

my boat did finally break
by the waves
and i broke free
as i tied myself
to a single board

though the panic is gone
i am now offended
why should i be so helpless
rising with one wave
and falling with the next

i don't know
if i am
nonexistence
while i exist
but i know for sure
when i am
i am not
but
when i am not
then i am

now how can i be
a skeptic
about the
resurrection and
coming to life again

since in this world
i have many times
like my own imagination
died and
been born again

that is why
after a long agonizing life
as a hunter
i finally let go and got
hunted down and became free

ghazal 1419 translated by nader khalili

true journey is the one which is made to yourself!

I would like to share the story of the bird Simurg-Phoenix- also known as Zümrüd-ü Anka is the most important mythical bird in Persia, Mezopotemia, Anatolia, Azerbaijan, Armenia and Central Asia.
Simurg is a tale bird. It is a huge wise bird with a beautiful voice.
It has a white ring around its long neck and all colors on its feathers.
It is the sultan of the all birds and lives beyond the KAF mountain.
According to story, all birds start a big journey to find Simurg.
It is a very difficult journey with a long distance.
First the birds cross the THE SEA OF LOVE
Then they fly over the THE VALLEY OF SEPARATION
After passing THE PLAIN OF GREED, they turn to LAKE OF JEALOUSY...
Some of the birds dive into the sea of love, some of them get lost at the valley of separation..
Some of them fell down on to plain with greed, some of them sink into the lake with jealousy..
At the end of the journey, there are only 30 birds can achieve to arrive at Kaf mountain.
However they can not find their Sultan bird Simurg..
But they just find a big mirror and see themselves at the mirror.
After 30 birds realize the magic of words..
Persian SI means "thirty" and MURG means "bird"
and they all understand that SIMURG is nothingelse, but just them..
This journey helps the birds to find themselves...

i woke up early tonight
smoothed the moon
cut little piece of my hair
put in a tiny jar
filled the rest with my tears

Tom Waits - Watch Her Disappear from Phil Bebbington on Vimeo.

"Love is a powerful emotion. Passionate love is stronger yet, so much so that it generates a congeries of other emotions: euphoric joy, fierce anxiety, episodes of despair alternating with exultant hope. The individual cannot sustain the intensity very long. Passionate love has, historically, been the stuff of poetry and legend. In real life, most cultures thoughout the centuries and, until recently, in the West have placed a terrifying penalty on passion, making it forbidden, sinful, and punishable in quite fearful ways. Religious and secular rulers have unambiguously disconnected passionate love from marriage and family. Despite tendencies to sentimentalize the experience, such love has had little place to go except to disaster and death. Authorities have feared its awesome force and its celebration of individual feeling over communal order.

Add to the combustible power of passionate love the igniting agency of sex, and one produces an explosion which all institutional authorities have conspired to suppress for thousands of years. By and large the authorities succeeded. But no longer: Today passionate love is expected to lead to sexual union, perhaps even to marriage and family. The consequences for individual and society are enor­mous, and we now turn to that "igniting agency"—sex—to examine some of those consequences,"

source: Love, Sex, and Intimacy / Their Psychology, Biology, and History

Elanie Hatfield, Richard L. Rapson

Symptom Recital

I do not like my state of mind:

I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.

I hate my legs, I hate my hands,

I do not yearn for lovelier lands.

I dread the dawn's recurrent light;

I hate to go to bed at night.

I snoot at simple, earnest folk.

I cannot take the gentlest joke.

I find no peace in paint or type.

My world is but a lot of tripe.

I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.

For what I think, I'd be arrested.

I am not sick, I am not well.

My quondam dreams are shot to hell.

My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;

I do not like me any more.

I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.

I ponder on the narrow house.

I shudder at the thought of men . . .

I'm due to fall in love again.

Dorothy Parker