The optimist bias

On average they expect things to turn better.
We are more accurate predicting reality.

They live longer, make diets, take vitamin pills,
and have children.
We drink bitter coffee and have chocolate cake 
for breakfast while predicting bad weather

Sure of finding better fields
their ancestors ventured to the unknown.
We are an evolution error,
deep in our brains the amigdala is the one to be blame.

If they lose their flight
it is because the love of their lives is somewhere
in the waiting room...
waiting.
For us the glass of wine is always empty,
reality is always broken.

Language

panorama with grass, beautifully  arranged by the wind
image © daniel korzhonov

if after the unthinkable
language is the only thing that remains
what I am doing writing in this alien tongue,
entangled  deeper and deeper in sounds I can barely pronounce
closing myself into the sweetness of silence?

Why this necessity of turning my back to
the beauty of reciting my favorite poets by heart?

After the catastrophe... after the massacre
after the horror...
language might be the only thing that remains
but how to convey the unspeakable?
This pain without limits
this pain without body
this excess of words... telling telling telling
one....two... onehundred times the infinite grief

I turn my back
and run away from language...

Thanks for the beauty

Polish poet and Nobel laureate Wislawa Szymborska

I do not dare to say her name aloud. There are not words to say good bye to an old beloved friend,
whose existence has taken place in a faraway universe, and at the same time is the only one who can speak to your inner self.

A "Thank You" Note

There is much I owe

to those I do not love.

The relief in accepting

they are closer to another.

Joy that I am not

the wolf to their sheep.

My peace be with them

for with them I am free,

and this, love can neither give,

nor know how to take.

I don't wait for them

from window to door.

Almost as patient

as a sun dial,

I understand

what love does not understand.

I forgive

what love would never have forgiven.

Between rendezvous and letter

no eternity passes,

only a few days or weeks.

My trips with them always turn out well.

Concerts are heard.

Cathedrals are toured.

Landscapes are distinct.

And when seven rivers and mountains

come between us,

they are rivers and mountains

well known from any map.

It is thanks to them

that I live in three dimensions,

in a non-lyrical and non-rhetorical space,

with a shifting, thus real, horizon.

They don't even know

how much they carry in their empty hands.

"I don't owe them anything",

love would have said

on this open topic.