Let me tell you about the intense moment when romance meets perversion, affection becomes pornographic, flesh and spirit overcome their unbridgeable gaps, and the only way of gaining control is letting it all go...

Actually, no. Don’t let me tell you anything. Some things are better experienced than recounted. If you’ve been there, no need for me to explain anything. And if you haven’t, descriptions shouldn’t really make much sense. Overwhelmed by a desire you’d forgotten you possessed, leading you to alarmingly familiar places, chaining you to faces you never thought you’d set eyes on again.

Don’t ask me where it ends. Or why. Or how.
I suppose we’re all better off without that knowledge.

Winter approaching, and don't you sometimes fantasize of hibernation, a deep sleep to rescue you from the torment of dark freezing mornings? But shorter days and falling leaves mean little to the fossilised forest; in short, you must go on without talking too much as complaints will not be tolerated.

They walked alone again, in a mist that tasted like iron. Strong winds and merciless sunlight had polished their skin, hardened their features, made their hearts more difficult to reach. Determined to forget, their chosen paths leading to opposite directions- backs turned and therefore not destined to clash, though the earth is round and all roads may converge if followed for sufficient time.

Thus spoke unyielding optimism. In reality, we all know roads rarely converge- our lives are simply not long enough. After a while, you must be naive not to get the message, you must be blind not to see the obvious, I told her, yet she looked through me as if I was invisible. So I began to wonder, who is the prisoner here, and who's the guard? Could reason be paving the way for emotion or is rationality just another evolutionary flaw?

Another trip, another airport, another all too familiar landscape glimpsed from above. Am I ready to face yet another past I ran away from? Never and always, having learned by now that the city will haunt me wherever I go.

Ghosts don't scare me anymore, I've come to appreciate their persistent, though delicate, presence . A worshipper of ruins, an obsessive collector of memories- my stubborn, ordinary self. Constantly attempting to resurrect what has expired; in love with all that wasn't, but could have been, if only...

In the end, I refuse to give it up, my pointless quest, doomed from the start. Perfect yesterdays cannot be preserved in brine, and withstand exact representation. In fact, their perfection is little more than a side-effect of their transience; flawed, mundane images idealized after they're lost.

Still, I won't quit, won't seek oblivion, because who will I be- who will you be- stripped of our cheap souvenirs, and ugly monuments, and cheesy songs reminding us of our days in the sun? Aspiration may instigate progress, but it is nostalgia that makes us human.

"As a writer, as an artist, your effects constantly elude you. You have a glimpse, an inspiration, you write a paragraph and you think it's there, but when you read back, it's not there. Every picture painted, every opera composed, every book that is written, is the ghost of the possibilities that were in the artist's head. Art brings back the dead, but it also makes mourners of us all."

Hilary Mantel

Losing it is so terrifyingly easy. I’m talking about control. Rational thinking. Self-restraint. Resistance to external influences. And all the rest. What I’ll say today may or may not make sense. It’s ok, I’m only aiming at is some kind of release from internal pressure. Striving to put my priorities in order. Remind me what they’re supposed to be. I do have priorities, right? Am I making the exact same mistakes? Will I weep tomorrow? Will I never learn?

Bollocks. If I sound helpless it’s only my latest attention-seeking strategy. In fact, I don’t need to be saved. I can survive without having my questions answered. Though I’d appreciate it if you tried. The truth is…throughout my life, these strictly disciplined days, my little rules and subtle defences, they’re nothing but excuses.

When I take off the armour, all my soul longs for is danger, disorder, unpredictability. The raw panic grabbing your mind when you know what you’re doing is wrong, will probably get you in trouble, a voice in your head screaming turn back now before it’s too late, and you pretend you’re listening, following orders, while secretly letting the sea take the oars, hoping the wind will carry you as far from the shore as possible, counting on the storm to overtake your will should fear make you change your mind during the journey.

First thing they teach you is those little games. Play hard to
get, they tell you, because we only want what we can’t have.
True enough. But the things you get and decide to keep are not always the most expensive ones. Ignore their foolish advice, I’d suggest. Pretension never adds value, it barely disguises inadequacy till the end of the chase.

Once, at a party, I met this guy. We exchanged a few words, then I was leaving. Such a shame, he said, so I replied, why don’t you come with me? Could have been a disaster. We stayed together
for five years. Simple as that. (My shyness, it seems, is surprisingly selective. Other people leave me lost for words. They’re not better, just harder to reach. And, naturally, I want them more. But winning is rarely the triumph I imagine.)

All I’m saying is, chill out everybody. Shed your masks, put your feathers aside. Break these empty rituals. Or just keep me out
of them. Might as well stay at home and read a book, like I’m
inclined to do anyway.

Dry earth welcoming the rain like your heart would welcome serenity, only death would put you at ease yet you’re still not ready to die. Wishing again someone would tell you what to do. Not sad, not enraged, not paralyzed by destructive emotions, just wondering, questioning, curiosity digging holes into your skull, pushing you forward till your flawed mortal flesh is spent, worn down, broken.

This is not what I wanted to say, why do my words always stir up dark feelings? It wasn’t meant to be this way, our urgent need knows nothing of pessimism, it is the will to live, not to give up and simply wither away. Struggling to leave a mark behind, make a sound loud enough to disturb the forces of the universe, though deep inside aware of the effort’s futility, acknowledging infinity's unassailable armies. Sooner or later silence will take its toll.

The certainty of an ending filling your nights with ghosts of wasted opportunities, but also blessing you with a sense of raw desperate freedom. On we go, either walking backwards or stretching to see what lies beyond. A pointless task, for the future is ever undecided and the past changes colour the more we dive into its ashen seas.

When she first met him she thought he was just too irritatingly adorable, like a cute spoilt child aware of its power over people.
She could sense the latent magnetism between them, yet assumed it would be purely physical, should it ever be allowed to prosper. His self-assured arrogance, sometimes cleverly disguised as humility, didn’t frighten her for she’d dealt with it in the past (and probably been a little bit like that herself.)

But such presumption would only make her fall more dramatic, in a rather comical way. Totally unprepared she arrived, only to discover there was more behind what met the eye. She hesitated; felt compelled to take a closer look; was momentarily seduced by the underlying promise of a certain challenge. (Mysteries attracted her, especially when they couldn’t be easily dismissed as folly, or when she dared to invest in her ability to resolve them first.)

And the game was lost before she’d even summoned her defences. So much for underestimating people through arbitrary categorization.

Surprisingly, I’ve already developed some kind of appreciation for this village of five million people, where everyone knows everyone else, taxi drivers are experts in politics, complaining is a way of life, and the summer seems to stretch indefinitely.

Yes, I’m talking about dirty, overcrowded, dysfunctional Athens. Not simply the setting of my childhood or the holiday destination it’s been for the past few years. This is a city I’m exploring from point zero, as if all my knowledge of it was nothing but a dream. Though I’m not yet ready to settle down, life here no longer frightens me. Even if I do come back in the end, it won’t be as tragic as I assumed it would be (me and my eternal dramas).

For now, I’m enjoying the luxury of not having to leave until I’m ready to, the possibility of making long-term plans, and above all the freedom of being a...tourist: Totally useless when it comes to dealing with bureaucracy, approaching employers or just finding which bus to take (no chance of relying on the internet for guidance), but curious, uninhibited, keen on smiling at strangers, opening my eyes and ears and nostrils to take it all in.

From Hunter Thompson’s Rum Diary:

“Sometimes at dusk, when you were trying to relax and not think about the general stagnation, the Garbage God would gather a handful of those choked-off morning hopes and dangle them somewhere just out of reach; they would hang in the breeze and make a sound like delicate glass bells, reminding you of something you never quite got hold of, and never would.

"It was a maddening image, and the only way to whip it was to
hang on until dusk and banish the ghosts with rum. Often it
was easier not to wait, so the drinking would begin at noon. It
didn’t help much, as I recall, except that sometimes it made the
day go a little faster.”

I saw the moon rise
Over the rooftops,
Another city
That never sleeps.

One day I vowed
To tame my passions.
Another promise
I couldn’t keep.

Beautiful words.
Did I believe them?
The heart was hopeful
The mind was wise.

Do you remember
That summer evening?
Hope is our fuel
And our demise.

Where will it lead us
Our heartless wisdom?
How did it fool us
Our fleeting youth?

I never hated
The smell of silence,
I’ve always doubted
Their sullen truth.

Athens 2007: After a concert for the benefit of those affected by
the fires, a priest comes on stage. He requests a minute of silence in the memory of the people who died in the blaze...as well as that of Luciano Pavarotti! Even worse, none of those present appeared to find the situation absurd.

In other words, my experiences with greek television never seem
to end well. To recover, I had to watch a documentary about the reproductive rituals of grizzly bears. Their love life is so sweet
and simple, I felt like crying.

Picture this: The male displays his strength, then plays the fool by lying on his back, while the female sits nearby, looking rather bored. When he comes closer, she casually moves away, so that it takes him three days to actually get to touch her. After that, they’re all hugs and nose-rubs and foreplay for the next couple of months. Next mating season, they’ll both find somebody new. Jealous?

They met again, two strangers with a long disputed history. Half-completed plans, sentences left unspoken, words which should have never been uttered, lies, broken promises, memories of joyful days now lost forever, polluted the silence between them. Their minds were already on separate paths, struggling to leave the ruins behind and move on, move forward, never looking back.

But their bodies still fit together like pieces from a puzzle. Soon they entered a realm where everything was alien in its warm familiarity. They sensed the promise of oblivion and embraced it, desperately, seeking to forget all that was, all that had been and all that would inevitably follow, delaying the moment of truth as much as possible.

Afterwards, they had nothing more to say. The wave had come, swept them by with its irresistible strength, lifted them high in the air, then left them tired and confused on some wild, foreign land, having suffered the loss of the secret channels connecting their souls, sadder and lonelier and lighter than they’d ever felt before.

The poets withered and died; the fools lived on. A hollow silence covered the desert as antique airplanes took off, never to return. Did you ever smile for me as the wind carried me away, she said, empty words, for their souls had been moulded into golden statues, magnificent but devoid of passion, movement, imagination.

Old witches starred in curiosity when the sun rose backwards for
the second time that day, nodding their heads in recognition: wisdom doesn’t always come with age. Give me back the fireworks,
she screamed, I never dreamt of peaceful walks in the park,
though his back was turned and his eyes were shut and his face seemed carved in stone.

Night fell, hiding their hopes and fears and memories, keeping them safe from the knowledge of their own mortality and from visions of that raging fire burning deep in their still half-innocent hearts.