MISSING YOU

How can two people be part of the same world if there is someone always on the missing side? Is it the illusion our soul is trying to crave for romance? To miss somebody leaves one of those empty feelings inside of us we can only understand if the other part is with us again, maybe promising she’ll remember to be yours. Sometimes I wonder if the feeling of missing somebody is nothing but the fear of a sort of imperfection of not being enough. Actually we want to leave just to avoid the steady crossing mind – but we cant!

Is it about the old times, the new times or simply tears? I don’t like to say do not cry since not every tear seems to be a scourge.

But what if we begin to understand that at some point we aren’t able to look back. Can time heal everything or must we accept that some pain is that profound it may embrace us forever? Is this the fortress of our life we must deal with or should we try to escape once again in search for the expected better one, who maybe never will come along? Possibly we sometimes forget how it feels to be alive and try to make it up for missing you. Somehow missing means nothing but the chosen one is not only a star, but the damn whole sky to ourselves – the one who might be able to change a life by making the one place of being together the place one would rather be.

I would like to quote not one of the famous authors the literal world has seen but one of my most heartily friends by saying that missing is the wish of wanting to put the others dreams in the ones eyes. But what if the other looked into my eyes, saw my heart shatter but hers didn’t? Dreams are illusions but pain is having presence in mind. Somehow we must fight bitterly to protect the roots of our leaves.

Cheers

Lorax

LOST WORDS

Do we lose some words over a certain period of time? All those simple phrases like humanity’s most famous one I love you and are we actually able to find them again by letting a bolt of bravery release them from the deepest of our hearts? Isn’t it about words coming along with us even the longest road in life expressing that, what we want and what we should – and our souls in a steady conflict with our rationality because of the one person we literally are not? Words we lived and maybe will, waiting for all those gorgeous days.

In the end lost is lost or should we get an exalted understanding of losing things, paraphrasing it with hidden? The ludicrous character of losing our words is that we actually lose ourselves. One metaphoric lost star, still in that ridiculous belief being one of a kind between a million but never even able to shine brighter then the rest.

And time runs.

So what should we search for among this mega-lie of free men who are nothing but slaves of their own profit? Love? Dreams? Luck? Maybe we shouldn’t forget that losing a part of us means a piece of ourselves is gone and instead of searching ideals of romantic imagination we might be better off getting our fucked up soul back together by facing our struggles. So why not starting to care about things again instead of standing the curios but somehow fashionable idea of giving a shit? What we mustn’t forget is that you don’t love someone for their looks, or their cloths or for their fancy cars, but because they sing a song only you can hear – so our old friend Oscar.

What he doesn’t say is who sings this song. Maybe someone, maybe ourselves or maybe the certain sunrise giving us every new day the chance to find out exactly that: Who are we? So why not loving a bit more in hope for better times - they won't be perfect, but pure.

Cheers

Lorax

AND THEN A HERO COMES ALONG

Suddenly he is there. The hero you were searching this long for. It may happen in an unexpected moment some time more or less bothering and he will make your life even only for instant that better. Who are our heroes today? The coffee shop guy smiling at you morning by morning giving you a positive start to your weekday, your best friend helping you out with some cash at the end of the month or a person coming to your life in a moment you didn’t want him to. Someone taking your fears, carrying on, simply surviving – like the very first summer wind coming up before the big thunderstorm guiding tears to rain. I am sure that there are lights to direct you home and those lights are your heroes. Could it be worse? Even if that light is missing it may be there just digging for the greater good, just because a hero is the one who he is.

So what is it about whether winning or losing, actually a key question for every hero to solve. Is it worth playing by knowing to lose or is it just about being brave 10 minutes longer? Is it a solution never to play? For my own understanding a hero can never be right as the one who gets protected is the one to decide about black or white. But don’t we all have to deal with our cursed stories to make it real at the end? Can we really be broken and do we really need someone with the literal helping hand? A quote I came across last week challenged even this question: Remember, if you ever need a helping hand, it’s at the end of your arm. So why not follow the signs right back to yourself? At the end it may not only be all about one and we must get the point that sometimes a hero can be inevitable, maybe simply because our hand isn’t that strong enough and we are lost along the way not longer able to read those signs. That might be the moment we will need somebody who is looking out for us but what if we are standing at the crossroads with even no strength to run and we can do nothing but stretch our arm and beg to hitchhike? Is there hurry anymore and who’s to blame for our poor situation? Oneself being a hopeless dreamer or our hero not even bothering to show up? Sometimes we just have to wait for the moment our road leads us down the way showing us that the only solution is to be the hero by oneself giving up the idea of remaining the one who needs to be cared for.

These are hard times for dreamers and nevertheless we must remember: anything is possible.

Cheers

Lorax

BLAME IT ON THE YOUTH

Today I came across the old Jazz Standard Blame It On My Youth. Written in the early 1930s and interpreted by a variety of crooner greats from Sinatra over King Cole to outstanding Jamie Cullum, this song keeps inspiring generations. Until we are young all our positive and negative experience might be safe out of our certain immunity called juvenileness, but what happens the day we can’t excuse ourselves that easy anymore? Is it possible to grow up at the end or is adultness a grey and old imagination of pure perfection built by moral, rules and conventions – so called noble moments? Doesn’t everybody stay this small, sensitive but jealous and angry kid somewhere in the corners of one’s mind and isn’t it even this special kind of humanity keeping us away from the remarkable façade of adult integrity? Can we ever leave the idea from adored to bored and be the one taking rational decisions? I think it stays hard to finish blaming somebody or –thing for our decisions as it may be another significance of childhood, trying to push harmful sorrows from oneself. What is an adult? Nothing but a grown up kid – if we are pleased to believe old Walt Disney.

And like the yearly procedure of buying Christmas presents we feel like kids again. Staring into those gorgeous vitrines showing us ever again our unfulfilled dreams we may realize that it might be this concrete issue keeping us aware from adultness – dreams that until now didn’t come true, because we absolutely need in our childish hearts a something we can long for. In some special periods of the year we try to keep our hearts light with troubles far away, just like the days we had someone who felt supposed to do up our shoelaces properly. But can we believe this magic of our sighs?
Where do all those great Peter Pan moments vanish during the rest of the year while we are waiting being young at heart again? No matter how we try to be mature. We will always be a kid when we get hurt – and we will cry, far away from our actual expectations. So where to search when we forget to believe in those moments waiting for us – that place between sleep and awake where dreaming is still remembered? Second star to the right and then straight on till morning.

Cheers

Lorax