what if I just welded
myself into place
and all but disappeared from view
like a fungus on a log gently decaying
what if I blended into the background
feeding myself with time
and with that which is inevitably transformed
by my presence and my appetite
Whatever we may claim: we don’t love our children.
Do you feel personally offended now? We all know lofty words are little more than air if they aren’t turned into action. You have to put your money where your mouth is. And judging by our deeds, there is no other option but to conclude that, in this society, we are either consciously lying, or unaware of the fact that we are lying. Frankly, I don’t know which one is worse.
If this society loved its children, it would place their well-being above that of its older generations. Instead, they now…
A thin layer of melting snow dampens the sound of her footsteps on the flagstones. When Reya turns her face to the sky, it feels like it is caressing her cheeks, one snowflake at a time. Melting gently, they settle on her nose and on her forehead. She licks them from her lips.
All around her, the city is quiet and grey in the bleakness preceding dawn. There are streetlamps sputtering, and shadows stirring in the darkest corners among the garbage.
Michal’s map of the city is in the pocket of her coat. She pulls it out now and then…
Today, I will keep my promise and share an excerpt from my new book, The roots of the world.
What kind of book it is, exactly? Hm. Thank you for asking.
I don’t particularly like the word children’s book. The best stories are always timeless and ageless. They might have a minimum threshold (an age below which you’re too young to understand the story) but they don’t have a maximum one. Sometimes, you can appreciate all the layers a writer has worked into a narrative only when you are well into adulthood. …
There are times we find ourselves falling to pieces. Life tends to have its own ways in which it forces us to embrace insight. Change. Growth.
They are rarely painless.
As a rule, we pull ourselves back together, patch ourselves up with string and band-aid. We try to resume our old shapes. They held the comfort of being familiar. A little tight-fitting, perhaps, and no longer suitable for who we have become. But familiar nonetheless.
Let’s just admit it: it doesn’t work. Not one bit. Worst case scenario, we are confronted with rough edges sticking out from all angles, holes…
I rarely remember my dreams. Or rarely longer than upon the moment of resurfacing from sleep. But there is one dream that has returned to me several times now, in different variations, over a period of time.
One morning, in late January 2020, this is what I write on the first page of a fresh diary:
Last night I had a dream like I have had before in course of the last years: from my house, I can see an enormous tidal wave approaching, a massive wall of water. I close off the house, the windows, everything I can. I…
A songbird aiming to add its song to the endless music playing throughout the universe.