The Taste of Opression

Peculiar, how the very first thing
ruthlessly storming my brain
was how each and every thing tasted;
which we ever ate together.

I had to think of how you talked about food;
how you laughed with tears in your eyes, enjoying the hot jalapeños,
how you cheated while cooking, mixing or substituting ingrediants
... or for instance how we had nothing but a samowar for boiling potatoes and eggs,
which then happened to explode and give us one hell of a cleaning job to do.

Is it not strange how I keep remembering shared joy concerning food
now that you refrain from taking any?
Almost sounds like the cruelest of pranks
which fate plays on me,
to be reminded of not only how much you are missed
but also how we miss eating with you;
Right from the moment I heard you were on Hunger Strike for most trivial of your human rights.

The Snow of many Years ago

There is always a wonder in how the snow seems to turn everything around. The very same streets, roads or landscapes make undenyingly different impression on everyone once they are covered under even a thin layer of frozen water flakes.
Most of the time and to most people it feels... calmer, more quiet, gentler or with a little exaggeration safer.
It should seem nothing short of a wonder how a little climate and season change meddles with our perception of our environment.

And once again I could not help but wonder if this is what we should have done all along. What the snow does above all is to cover up. It covers not only our dirt and rubbish which should not have been left in the first place, but it also covers up all that it too much. Maybe we have just filled our world with a great deal of unnecessities without realizing it, specially because the greatest input we receive all the time is how much there is that we still need to accumulate. Now when finally someone comes and covers some of it up then the mind funds an opportunity to breeze and to get "to the point."

Words Apart

The peculiar feeling of suddenly sitting here, at your own desk and realizing that the scribblings you have been staring at are actually your handwriting. You can still make perfect sense of what is written while you fail to remember what you were thinking of while writing it down. With an inexplicable warmth crawling up your gullet you realize that there is no telling at all if it is the same you sitting here now who wrote it all or if meanwhile you have transformed into a whole new person.
Now you look at your notes once again, this time with bewildering amazement for the human who wrote them, for the person who managed up till now, worked it out into becoming you.
With rising curiosity you now look at the almost empty mug next to the notes and could not help but take that last huge sip, just to know how must have tasted in the mouth of the one who left you all this.
Still not having swallowed down the creamy bitter substance you now go for the pen which has been so exhibitionistically lying there all along. With a gesture suggesting the intention to write you can not help but wonder how it must have felt to be the one who brought it all together.