The ride.

How it fills me

The word,

The abrupt but definite,

Irreversible awareness

Of death.

A lot like death itself

Not flaunt but proud

A thought I

Inwardly wear

To adorn my soul.

Truly,

How will I feel

Facing death

The way I face my

Breakfast ,

Every morning

Unarmed and resigned.

 

 

Death grows from a word

Blooming on the tips

Of my fingers

Firm breast buds

Of what I could

Have done.

Everyway I turn my eyes…inspiration!

Gracious God!

One can not feel good about what one has unless one disgraces what the others have.I was reading this article at “Peshku” and just could not resist the temptation.The article expresses an admirable concern about the people who convert from Islam to Christianity, and who apparently live in fear because of their choice.Real as this fear must be, the article is not very constructive, as it does not really provide with any ideas as to how these people can be helped (though a sneaky-freaky idea underlies there) and as far as I understood the situation is not even applicable in Albania. The point of the article?

Well people like Monika Mohebbi can not deal with their sense of guilt and their complexness, (they have to voice it) or simply they have a problem with religion in general (Nëse lexon Kuranin atëherë të hyn frika. Nëse nuk bëj këtë apo atë gjë, çfarë do të ndodhë? Nëse nuk mbaj shami koke atëherë shkoj në ferr. )for I do not know of any religious teachings that say it is okay to steal, lie, kill, cheat or backbite or be the servant of your own desires. 

I am willing to voice the fears of the other side.When I decided that I had enough of a pointless, purposeless life, became a muslim and started to pray and especially when I hid my wonderful locks, to all but the eyes of my earthly beloved, my intellect was given a proper, symbolic, and painful funeral.The really nice but unhappy and perplexed person I used to be, was killed.I had no more friends and of course a lot of psychological tendencies of mine were dug out of my childhood.I was never asked why this choice, never asked if I was happy, the reasons of my change were all assumed. I became a curiosity.I also knew these two young girls who came to my home to pray, hiding from their families who told them : “Better prostitutes than muslims” and did their best to get them out of Albania to “save” them.( Freedom of choice was never given a single thought)

And I know of a lot many more muslim women and girls who  are or live with the fear of being shut out of the society simply for making the choice  of being  such. 

Boredom.

Shred the boredom. Horizontally. Vertically. Bug it with a fork, like food leftovers.Sitting beside the table, staring at me, are all the characters and shapes my boredom ever fit into. They are all sighing, frozen in a state of disappointment.Even the paperclip guy is bored or is he simply being bitchy (so to say)…? Silence…then the noise of the fridge forges beads in my brain. Hey, the only person I can talk to is myself, so even if this does not make much sense is fine with me.Nonetheless I think boredom is a capitalist sickness of frosty, itchy seasons and gets no other cure but slapping. I like sunny days and I need to go home!

Late at night.

 

Slowly fill the room

Those gently pouring sounds

That seed little joys.

My silence grows

In white sheets,

A self restraint

Internal silence

Like a not so ripe fruit.

Be it a futile dream

I do dream of love

As a part time job,

Maybe, escaping

A dialectical overdose.

But I know of the day,

So I wait.

My sense of duty

Twirling in a sufi dance.

The unrest

is only a protection.

Long live the internet for making us connect with so many people (though often the wrong ones),

for making us live like cadavers in our own homes, for making us live (already) as a memory in our children`s minds ,

for giving us the chance to flirt at any possible moment of the day or night.

Long live the internet for making me able to be a master of my own anger.

Winter light.

The dancer sleeps.

Through my fingers

And the air,

Mute, extends my chest.

More than the lack of change

Its expectation hurts.

Meanwhile

little words

Sprout, under

theatrical lights.

 

 

For some reason

I remember

Softly burning wood

While the storm

Uncynically persists,

Outside

And I am little again

Wondering who will

My husband be.

 

 

As I look at Billy.

As I look at Billy,

Chair-shaped,

His curved back

Like an eyebrow,

That not so

Perpendicular line

Shutting inside

Crowds of men,

Forever sipping coffee,

I feel

In slow motion

Shots of days

Shots of nights

Days, nights

As long as my regret.

As a mother,

The attraction to

Killing the pain

Does not scare me

I feel raving, oh so raving!

Yet I sit there, trying to find something to say as if I had no simple thoughts that fill my mind at any pulsing of time (having three kids and a husband!). I think I` m simply incapable of indicating details and describing thoughts or feelings or situations so I cling here and there in distant and scattered words as if I was climbing a mountain.This raving though feels as if I was carsick The wandering from page to page does nothing but increase my quarantine.I have to tidy up my brain and find out a good way to make up for the lack of affection which I find to be in itself a discriminatory act. It is painful to constantly need some kind of human exchange and look for it say in a bag.But I definitely have decided that my feeling that I am the victim is only a sign that I love myself too much or think myself too good.So I have to match the idea of me with me

On the window sill.

Ky kundershtimi yt

Oh! kaq i meket

Perplot me pohim

Te dyshimeve te mia

Dhe kjo farse e gjate

si bisht fustani

qe ti ma fryn ne fytyre

erashke e dorashke!

Me terheq per flokesh

dhe rrenjesh figura jote.

Une me U magnetike

Dypolare , kuq e blu ,

Fanele futbolli

Dhe flamur indiference

Shpalosja e te cilit

Kerkon perhere

Prej meje ere ,apo fryme ,

frymen time qe te ben ty

shtellunga shtellunga

te ngrohta .

Ky njeri qe ti nese je

ecen perhere

Bri stomakut tim, me dhimbje

Dhe oreks shetites

Si yll deti.

Love is a misunderstanding!

She says

She doesn`t like the night,

This hairstyle

Around her face,

Curls of dark,

Hairpins of stars

Like villages

That appear and not,

Just a spark.

She says her heart

Now is a pillow

Candy of childhood

that she forgot ,

on the table,

in the corner,

on the right.

She says

nobody hears

The drums,

The beatings,

The rains.

Nobody sees

The island,

Cross-legged

Eating her life

With no stains.

I do not know her

When she says

Such things

This cypress

Tall and straight

I thought it was me !

I thought it was me !

I thought it was me

I swear!