it's been a while; like the thunder in a white sky
and a mist around the rainy self.
There has been a while since speaking, now wondering
if the same voice might be ours yet.
In the dreary moment of change whispers of the old songs
in the trousers of a new era.


we can build a different personal history based on the trivial moments of the surrounding time and space in-between. That would throw new light on ourselves. That would expand time experiences and our familiarisation with space.

ps. this thought includes people as well, all those we 've come across throughout our life. See how many our memory excludes. We come to define ourselves by such a limited memory, a selective approach of our thinking and action. Still, you may argue that we include much more because we are shaped by the acquaintance, not by their memory. But our perceived identity is a different measure of our being.




the travelling of the previous year, the mountains whose name I forgot, the seasons I 've noticed changed, the neighbourhood I came to be in, the feeling of coming back home, my bird, the scattered opened books with pencil writing, the entrance, the usual path. People.
I 've framed the memory like a cloud seemingly timelessly moving between lines.


quite the opposite : just a gesture
(not the inbetween narrative)


an invitation to someplace I, too, worked on

it's a museum about wine. It' s dark and cold. In the next room the wine is resting.

As I look at the pictures, suddenly it reminds me of a submarine.
It is indeed an underground space.

some playing!
nor bad or good
a blossom still


[the earth and the world, they have no place like this amongst the two of us]
I put on my glasses, put a pillow behind my back. This screen is my virtual white sheet of paper. My mind whispers to my hand the spelling of the words. I write having the sense of the keyboard on the tip of my fingers. I write with both of my hands. My thought is being spelled down, I play it on this different piano. Why have I been feeling the need to get back to my pen and book? When do I have a better touch of my written down words, the words that are a part of me? Is it the temperature of the sheet of paper? Is it my handwriting that makes it more real, I mean more physical? Sometimes I would urgently write with my hands wet, the paper absorbed the drops, the ink would go dispersed in some free patterns, like a river or the rain. I would see my thought then change, quite out of hand. Then, I would stuff the paper into the special drawer. Is it the thought that what I wrote now has a place? It takes some place, it is this big, this small, it ages, it may be unreadable, someday it will be gone, not shaved on a hard disk's memory or deleted by a bygone flaw? Is it about duration? Is it about imperfection? What makes the printed version different, I wonder. Sometimes I would write with my eyes shut- that helped me hear myself clearlier, helped me concentrate. Is it about control? If I now place my hands a bit on the right, no meaning will be held in those distorted made languages. Is it about consciousness? Every now and then I now click and order 'save'. When I make a new word, it shines, it gets alone in its context. Is it about mistakes? Is it about my freedom? Is it about surprise?


απομεσήμερο της πρώτης μέρας του Σεπτέμβρη

Right this moment, it is so quiet. The neighborhood seems to be resting. It is sunny and the small dog who lives with the happy family on the opposite house is barking, asking for play.

I remember:

looking at different directions from the same point,
I can see different things

the sea rises upon the trees