“It’s not my fault” she says
“I have lost touch with my emotions”
as she aligned her cigarette on the ashtray
as if she’s lost in that puzzling maze of the memory she has

she dusted off the extra ash and sat back
with the cigarette embedded between her fingers
she always played with her lip, using her thumb and ring finger
while the others base the cigarette away from her face

Ever since she discovered her love affair with words
she noticed that she didn’t talk much
she’d rather write, let her fingers rhythmically
generate pages upon pages of her unheard voice

“But what’s going on?” her counterpart voiced

“I am not sure, I think romantics are extinct
those who lost contact with their inner beings
I think, now that the guard is down
my heart has come out to play
and flooded my mind with trapped feelings
that have yet to bask in the light of day”

“we’re the naughty kids, who never listen
to the parents of reason
to the echoes of “we told you so”
and to the brain…what a poor organ
we ignore his voice of reason
and tilt towards the rebellious heart
whose broken pieces still feel the burn
the fresh cracks that it still work on mending”

She paused and took a big gulp
of the dew dropped white wine cup
that left its circular mark on the coaster below
she paused to mentally write her next part of the conversation
she saw the words in the empty space in front of her eyes
she took a drag, concentrated
and read what that invisible ink of hers
jotted down

“we’re a dying breed, the last of those
who marvel at the unattained part of love
that hurtful sadistic game of chess between two hearts
every move is feared
calculated?… not much
but with full throttle, each piece
always goes forward, sometimes sideways
but never backwards”

“game?” the voice answered

“romantics, turn everything into a game
they believe the serious part of life is kept in the shadows
they wear their hearts on their sleeves, expose it
like a naked lover waiting to be caressed by the soft touch
the rough love making, the in-between sighs of relief,
gasps for air”

she flicked the cigarette

“Aren’t you scared though”

“Not really, I was scared once
but then everything went from free writing
to an excel sheet of organized behavior
kind of dull I might say
I wore it, broken, mended, stitched
still bleeding, basking under the curiosity
of what the next adventure brings
turning that dreary appearance into
a glowing portrait of smashing colors
attracting the next heart, that’s willing
to joust with mine, fence with every beat
and waltz to the imperfect
thuds of mine”

“some call this irresponsibility
I call it courage
lust for the unknown
for falling for that silly
game that hypnotizes your senses
resists all sense of normality
I believe this is a rare behaviour
felt by those
who dare”

She stood up
her skin ignited a carpet of goosebumps
curious by nature
she looked outside
it was snowing

“do you want to play” the voice asked


tomer hanuka bed room snow


One thought on “Script

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s