Love All Around The World.

There’s a dog wagging his tail, a couple kissing on the side of the street. It’s all the romance of the Earth twirling around us like the music on her spinning dress. They are there at the cafe, getting coffee discussing their former mates. They have wide smiles and wine filled stomachs for they love to laugh a little too loud in the dinner candle lights.

All the love in the world, but somehow we are just magical observers who gets a glimpse of the lady he’s pulling himself into. We look in the mirror at ourselves and wonder, “Who is that? How have we changed into this person?”

The reflection erodes our understanding of self and our egos are enlightened to the uncomfortable revelation of reality, we are not the center stage performer as we once were. There was a time of our moment in the spotlight but that time has come and may never come again, or at least it feels that way. Sticking to our way to big book, we can see the eyes gleam at us while we eat a sushi dinner for one.

They were mocking the scene across the bar, and the woman couldn’t resist to ask the question, “What book is that?” Turning around to pleasant eyes radiating behind circular glasses, it wasn’t a mistake. The thought that the couple had been staring this way for the past 15 minutes had been confirmed with one question.

“Lord of The Rings,” a voice answers, and somehow the next thing a person knows is they find themselves joining a meal for two as their plus one. Becoming a now third element to the type of couple family members pressure over wedding cocktails, “so when are you two planning the engagement?”

But there was no reason to disengage as she started to describe,

“In France, people start dating from the moment they go out. Right on the first date, that’s it, you are my boyfriend.” She looked at her man and smiled.

Now being in no rush to leave, we discover they’ve been dating for one and a half years and just moved in together.

In no rush themselves, she works here in Israel at a big time company dealing with blockchain of some AI program and he, being from Rhode Island, happened to find himself working as an employee for Fiverr and mainly as her man. A sweet, simple, yet modern couple. They couldn’t help but mingle with the meal words signifying a modified management of monogamy.

There was an impressive chord struck when she claimed she wants the kids to be raised by him while she climbs the corporate cubicle. France, apparently, spiced itself with the same spunky feminism of the west, and there’s a moment where we listen to the fresh take on old told notion.  

With the sight of their seamlessly solid twosome, we ask ourselves the subtle question, “Is this the new way for our future?”

Pondering the rules to the generation’s new game, we conclude, “Whatever the rules, will we be able to stick by them?”

Walking away with more questions than answers we think, “Who are we? And as a person, how do we view relationships?”

The time has come to try and answer these questions.

Friends tell us it’s time we go out and date, that we should step up to the plate.

But what are we trying to swing at? How was the pitch for a relationship up at bat? Will it even be a home-run across the globe?

More importantly, “Will these beliefs get us a definite travel ticket to the City of Love?”

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PLEASE!!**  Share your thoughts 🙂 That’s how we all learn and grow, Thank you!

We Write at Night.

This is the time we write, at night. Where no one can hear the sight of light because we are in the dark midst tormented by which way to turn and what to see.

This is when the lights go off and the dimly lit street light becomes center stage and we can see the graffiti art on locked up stores. Who says these sprayed on smiles aren’t painted for us? See the silent messages of, “fuck yeah” as we feel the emotion well up from within. The spark that follows into the never ending rainbow of this art turning into the artistic thoughts we think. It’s ours if we claim it. Copywrite or continued connected consciousness?

Report as a spam. Because we too speak the words, “I am my biggest problem” written in the alley corners of contemplation.

These are the thoughts we think. This is the way we roll, behind street paths with funny names and and the not so funny moment when someone looks back at us as we take a hit of the moment.

Why haven’t we ever taken the time to just absorb the atmosphere, to sit at the corner of Ha-Carmel and Allenby to listen to the bus beeps and the inhale to second hand smoke? We stop little ones from riding into oncoming traffic, and barely have time to look up and see that the city has been built off distress and art made in twilight.

It’s the time when we can’t make eye contact. It’s not safe. Don’t talk at midnight, walk like we’ve got somewhere to go.

In the waking hours of 4:44am we hear it, the not so subtle gargling of its underbelly. And the fact of the matter is we’ve sharpened all our nails for this point. Because we know we aren’t just being followed by our inner shadows as a random dark stranger follows us whichever way we go.

We march for violence against women because the one to one ratio of offense is an alarming feat, so we pick up ours and walk to a new pace but it’s not at our own speed and it isn’t even in our direction. Something says we better pay attention. We are trying to see, there’s no need to stop and no place to go.

We wonder.

“Is this the station for the bus or where we get off to stop?” Stand still, breathe in the overwhelmingly sweet bread, and try not to act tempted. Are we our own superwoman? Could we fly away with wonder words waging womanly wars? We have a right to be here. But that birthright is on no basis at all.

The holy land.

The land of holy bibles and holy battles, like wholly bloodshed.

If we were so above the days of sexism why are we deathly terrified to trail down that dark path?

“Grr” in anger as if we were growling like the zombie sounding man-of-the-street does at the stroke of night.

No train of thought, just endless tracks that have no destination. We’re in Israel, don’t you see it? The motorcycle vroom-vroom on the move, but that social time has got us drifting in a rhyme. With this prophetic language we are speaking Hebrew just fine.

Yes it’s  jewish, but not so orthodox. We don’t see things the same as them. They ask if we have a shekel or two to donate to a poor jew? But what if we are that poor few?

What if we are the ones who need to fill our paper cups and spill out on a not-so-paper-page as we write down the way we walk in a story.

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He Likes Her, She Likes Him.

He likes her…

Because she is different, adventurous, spontaneous, completely illogical. She has the perfect amount of curves he’s called to, a captivating charisma, a confidence of core character. He thinks she’s a beauty both on a basic biological basis and in brilliance of a bold brain. Her arch in her back sends him wild to the sky, sending messages overseas in a bottle of opened vulnerabilities. He thinks of her as a princess, depicted in his mind as an ideal that can’t be shaken and scratches his head as he shakes off the slumper with another night dreamt of sleeping beauty. What a goddess in his eyes, a pinnacle of potential perfection. She was a light on to him, and he contrasted her glow. What was he to her? The shadow underneath, the repulsive underbelly of way to many nights cramming codes on keyboards. He wasn’t at her level, she was just too pure to be his. So he held out his hand and dramatically took it back, “I guess I’ll just go.” And on he went without her, mopping and trying to man-up, but he was a mess. Mortified to the merical of a possibility, “Could it have been us?” He types her a message in pain of a reply. Why does she barely reply?

She likes him…

Because he’s like a reflection, one with the shine of an extroverted magician, that can spark her fantasies of romantic affairs. He is the exact fit to her storybook ending, a man of charm, a lover of her world. She believes he is stable, even with his unpredictable consistency, he manages himself. She writes letters to him daily she never intends to send. A ritual act that builds up her love of his lips, a lust of the lingering link between them. She wonders about him as she wakes up in the morning, as she goes to sleep at night, and all throughout her walking days. He seems so far away from her now, halfway across the world. Many time zones away, she was ahead of his lifetime and she wonders if she’s ran too far astray. Was she ahead of him? Did she move too quick to capture his concentration? “Was she just too above him?” she’ll wonder as she writes these words on journals she’ll share to the world but will not dare for him to see. “I suppose I could reach out now,” she will say as she sends the first email, a response 4 months overdue. The hurt of her heart hangs hopeful at the positive reaction, but why does she resist to reply?

He likes… nobody knows.

Because his actions are off and the mood of time’s discordant records of behavior calls for him to not know what he wants. Is it her, or is it just,

Himself.

He likes himself…

Because he has the ability to choose what he wants and where to go, what to do. His freedom is first and frankly that is his choice. He admires his extreme lifestyle and is a diehard addict to a businessman’s pace. He replies back to her for himself. He loved her, he remembers as he trips over memory’s lane.

In love there is three sides to attraction:

He likes her, but she likes him, and he likes himself.

But maybe he also likes her?

Because she likes herself.

But him, the him that only likes her, never really likes himself.

So she can never really like him.

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Can We Ever Really Get Out of the Matrix?

See the rain fall down like a simulation, the crackled thoughts on the page. Believing most of our best thoughts come from corner set cafes and clouded conceptions of choice. Which pill to choose the one that’s red or the one that’s blue?

We want NEO so we have to be Trinity, the third that doesn’t equal three because she is him and he is she. Writing on empty, we have no shadow of purpose and somehow the mood slips away from our oracle and we all fall.

Walking in the splashes of numerical light, are we the one or just another agent of the agenda? Who are we? We walk, nothing phases us, not the shoe salesman who attempts to grab our hand at the door, not cab driver who tries to couple us up, and not even the same demons that define us, that follow us halfway across the world and back again.

Everyone in the world can just back off. Sickened by the amount of people who will just use anyone for free work without purpose. If there’s another Instagram post about how life only gets better, then why does the post only make us feel worse?

There goes another snapchat story about what a person does every second of the day like there’s even the point of living a life someone is constantly filming. Does everything have to be on camera? Such an invasion of privacy. How do we humans even take it anymore?

When the clock strikes 9:18am and we are late for work. “You have a problem with authority Mr.Anderson. You believe that you are special, that somehow the rules do not apply to you. Obviously you are mistaken.” (Mr.Rhineheart, The Matrix) Part of a system that we don’t comply to, we, the employee, has a problem and thus the company has a problem.

What’s the point of profit in a world where we don’t grow food to have a meal but catch one outside a pub or a favorite noodle restaurant? “I used to eat there. Really good noodles,” (Neo, The Matrix) we will say as we uncover the truth of the reality we are actually living in. None of it matters when we discover the codes. What does it all mean?

“That the Matrix cannot tell you who you are.” (Trinity, The Matrix) We are involved in a world of our own creation, manifesting at will what we birth to a new day. Tired. We are so VERY exhausted of the constant facade we show the “real” world. The working world, the world that everyone wants to appear to be a part of but not take a true part in. It is a machine.

A disgusting, non-feeling, multifaceted organism that we can’t escape even if our lives depended on it, because our life does depend on it. Our minds are addicted to the matrix.

We are slaves to it.  

Even as the letters get typed on this virtual page, these thoughts couldn’t reach a soul without the artificial exposure of the web. We are tangled in it. Forgetting the dramatic realization that we are the spider that set the silk. Trying so desperately to seek a way out of it, but how?

“The body cannot live without the mind.” (Morpheus, The Matrix) This mechanism of madness is a mental matter and the residual self-image of our bodies keeps us trapped in this prison of perception. Five senses not noticing we have any other ones.

We lose sight of what’s real.

Hearing nothing but endless beeping swoosh sounds of cars.

Smelling the sweet breads that cover up the hints of cigarette smoke and cat piss.

We taste nothing as we eat for sensation mindlessly, because when we touch ourselves we don’t have any feeling.

It’s a senseless place and, “Unfortunately no one can be told what the Matrix is. You have to see it for yourself.” (Morpheus, The Matrix) Because, “It is the world that has been pulled over your eyes to blind you from the truth.” (Morpheus, The Matrix) That truth is we could be so much more than just slaves to it. We could be the one, we could all be the one, to live that truth.

The first day that one wakes up and realizes that they have a choice, is the beginning of asking ourselves, “Why not stay in wonderland and see how deep the rabbit hole goes?”

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