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[lachicaconloslibros]

Στης φλόγας το φως, εκείνης της μικρής που μυρίζει βανίλια

Στην πρώτη και στην τελευταία λάμψη του ήλιου

Θα είμαι πάντα εκεί και θα ονειρεύομαι με τα μάτια ανοιχτά

Θα είμαι εκεί και θα προσποιούμαι πως δεν προτιμάω το χαρτί από τους ανθρώπους

Πως δεν γράφω για αγάπη δίχως να αφήσω ποτέ κανέναν να διαβάσει

Θα είμαι εκεί, για λίγες στιγμές, μόνη κι ο εαυτός μου πριν τσαλακώσω το φως μου για να χωρέσω σε έναν κόσμο που δεν χωράει πια φως

[lachicaconloslibros]

There’s a terrible kind of nostalgia in coming to terms with the ephemeral. Think of beautiful days and nights that grow lost in the past, songs you never knew you heard for the last time, places you never knew you wouldn’t visit again; people you’ve loved that you didn’t get to say a proper goodbye to, because you never knew it was goodbye. Let that sink in, while each second that passed, becomes past.

[lachicaconloslibros]

I know not who I am. Perhaps I’m made up of every person I’ve ever come by. Always unaware and wondering about the depth of my own soul and what of it belongs to me or is, put simply, the result of my loving others. Each passing day I come across another thing, another habit I’ve adopted from someone I hold close to heart. And so I wonder where I might belong. Is it under the stars that I never quite fell for, is it in the shadow of a moon I find too cold or in the scorching sun? Do I belong, perhaps, in the sea, always afraid since childhood but always enticed, always tiny in a huge world but always, somehow, me? I know not the answer to this enigma of souls and worlds and stars and skies and who I am. But if I am someone, anyone at all, it’s who I am when nobody’s looking, in the comfort of my solitude, and yet forever a mosaic of everyone I’ve ever loved.

[lachicaconloslibros]

I’m a runaway, always feeding my fear of connection. But before you, I’m still. I can’t bolt away, bolt away, because you keep me so still with invisible reins round the chest. My nomadic heart beats in the rhythm of your name. But honey, I’m a runaway, runaway. Let me go, help me go, I want to run away.

[lachicaconloslibros]

Να μη ζητάς συγγνώμη για πράγματα που δεν είναι ευθύνη σου. Να ερωτεύεσαι πρώτα τον εαυτό σου, ολότελα και ακατάπαυστα και μετά όλους τους υπόλοιπους. Να σε εκτιμάς και να σε αγαπάς και να σε έχεις πάντα πάνω απ’τον οποιοδήποτε. Να ζεις τη ζωή στα άκρα, χωρίς υποχωρήσεις, συμβιβασμούς και ανιαρές μέρες. Κάθε μέρα σου να είναι ιδιαίτερη και να φροντίσεις εσύ για αυτό· να σε κάνεις να γελάς, να σε φροντίζεις. Διάβασε ένα βιβλίο, δες μια ταινία, περπάτα στη φύση, ζήσε τη στιγμή και κάνε την καρδιά σου να φουσκώνει με αγάπη. Αγάπη για σένα. Μερικές μέρες αγνόησε τα πάντα, αν το χρειάζεσαι, αλλά ποτέ εσένα. Βασίσου στους ανθρώπους σου, αλλά βασίσου πρωτίστως στον εαυτό σου. Γιατί οι άλλοι φεύγουν κι έρχονται και χάνονται στο αέναο του χρονου και στο τόσο εφήμερο της ανθρώπινης ζωής. Εσύ όμως μένεις.

[lachicaconloslibros]

Will there ever be a sign to scream that I was here? That I stared up at the bloody moon, walked the streets at sunset and at dawn, that I loved and cried and wrote places and people into worlds?

[lachicaconloslibros]

Will my blood-written words remain like a scar in the matrix, or will they be but scarlet footprints in the sand for raging waves to roll in and wash away?

[lachicaconloslibros]

Her heart lay not with people, but with stars and the phases of the moon. It relished not love, but sunsets and sunrises. Her peace came with whispering waves crushing to foam against the shore, with rain thudding on her window. Her fear came not with thunder as it rolled in and whipped an electrifying storm-it came when at night the sky rose up not scarred with stars, instead dull, and when the spines of her books threatened to give out from overuse

[lachicaconloslibros]

The sky is scarred with wild stars tonight

The moon blood-red as if a heart pricked by thorns

The dark sea seems a constant so relentless tonight, peering through the surface, through aging skin and bone

The stars guide a path of moonlight in the abyss, casting shadows like a dead man’s wraith

One’s life is only a heartbeat, a star to scar the sky in the bliss and pain and unstoppable of the end, a scar like those of age and hurt

A wrinkle on the sky’s skin

A sign to scream that I was here-that I loved, that I walked through the streets at sunset and stared up at the bloody moon, thought people into stars and names into worlds

A star, a scar, a wrinkle in the wordly womb, infinite opposing to ephemeral life-a footprint in the sand that will never be blown away

[lachicaconloslibros]

The sky is scarred with wild stars tonight

The moon blood-red as if a heart pricked by thorns

The dark sea seems a constant so relentless tonight, peering through the surface, through aging skin and bone

The stars guide a path of moonlight into the night, shadows like a dead man’s wraith

One’s life is only a heartbeat, a star to scar the sky in the bliss and darkness of the end, a scar like those of age

A wrinkle in the world’s infinite body and soul

A sign to scream that I was here-that I loved, that I walked through the streets at sunset and stared up at the bloody moon, thought people into stars and names into worlds

A star, a scar, a wrinkle in the womb that births us all, infinite opposing to ephemeral life

[lachicaconloslibros]

Messy-hearted and sad, hurt yet still trusting.

I should use my mind more and my heart less.

[lachicaconloslibros]

Fill your heart with love; lovely memories and books, movies and stories and sunsets and sunrises, walks in the forest, warm cups of tea and cashmere sweaters, candlelight and stargazing at midnight

[lachicaconloslibros]

Feel with your heart what it is to experience simple things as if they were not just a sunset or a sunrise, but an ecstasy, a miracle of life unspoken of and bright and marvelous, like a newborn star amidst countless million-old ones

[lachicaconloslibros]

Exist loudly. Voice your thoughts, play your music on speaker, walk in the rain and relish sunlight, read and venture and feel.

[lachicaconloslibros]

Homeless books, full of dog ears and lines highlighted, books you read and connect not only with the writer and the heroes and the story, but with the reader before you too

[lachicaconloslibros]

To pick up a book you’ve not read in years and lose yourself in it as if for the first time, falling in love again with new worlds and people and stories

[lachicaconloslibros]

Pulling out a book from your town library’s bookcase, only to be sucked into a grander, secret library of books unknown and unread, some even forbidden, some ancient, but all of them carefully hidden