Waking up into the real dream

I lay in the grass with the pain of inner questions running through my mind, and my heart. And I wonder whether when we lie down for the imaginary  sleep, do we get to revisit the place once held our shape?
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Do we get to smell life the way we did that day? And feel the wind through the blades of grass, and stare into the eyes of a faithful friend who cannot speak, but it’s there for us?
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Is this what everyone else calls a ghost: us, reliving some of the moments  – when we felt so vulnerable and fragile, that we could have easily be melted by the rain – before sinking into oblivion, before waking up into another dream?
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What a terrible misunderstanding…

I love Paris in the spring time…

I love Paris in the fall

Paris is in the details
Paris is in the details

I love Paris in the winter when it drizzles

There is never the same feeling when rediscovering a new angle
There is never the same feeling when rediscovering a new angle

I love Paris in the summer when it sizzles

Taking a rest in Luxembourg Gardens under the watchful eyes of time
Taking a rest in Luxembourg Gardens under the watchful eyes of time

I love Paris every moment

Time stands still on the Ile de la Cite
Time stands still on the Ile de la Cite

Every moment of the year

Surrender the charm of Le Petit Palais
Surrender the charm of Le Petit Palais

I love Paris, why oh, why do I love Paris?
Because my love is near.

Contemplating on the lawn of Musée des Arts Décoratifs
Contemplating on the lawn of Musée des Arts Décoratifs

I love Paris in the spring time
I love Paris in the fall

Haunted passages of Paris are full of stories
Haunted passages of Paris are full of stories

I love Paris in the winter when it drizzles
I love Paris in the summer when it sizzles

Some things never change and we don't want them to...
Some things never change and we don’t want them to…

I love Paris every moment
Every moment of the year
I love Paris, why oh, why do I love Paris?
Because my love is near.

Waiting for the summerNote: “I love Paris” was written by Cole Porter. 

Under pressure

Why do I feel the weight of the world on my shoulders?

Etna

It’s light.

It’s light when I clothe my soul in a different skin.

Ladybug

It’s light when I burst into blooms of colors and scent.

Flower

Why can we only love what we see, but fail to see when we love?

darkness coming

A night of weary thoughts rushes in through my pores, and it’s not the darkness I fear, but the fear itself.

Why do I feel the weight of time on my shoulders? Or more likely the lack of time that presses down ever so slowly, and ever so fast like the night pressing down on the setting sun.

Trees

It’s light and I’ve been awake in my dreams. It’s time to fall back into the sleep of reality again until I convince fear to see me.

waterfall

An average dream

Could not even remember where exactly, but I saw this phrase: ‘average dream last only 20 minutes.’ And I could not help myself stop and stare at the screen, thinking of course, how did they manage to measure that? And started to attempt bringing back from my memories the various dreams I had…that I was going to be a doctor, then a journalists, then a media owner and then a perfumer….I even considered being a writer, I’m sure that dream did not last 20 minutes.

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What happens with a dream after the 20 minutes have ended? Is there an automatic machine that sorts them according to the attention we give them?

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The small, common and all-the-same, like a bag of freshly picked chestnuts pop up to the surface and blind us with their sense of security and comfort and we fill our palms with them, we smell them for a while and even though they don’t really bring back memories of the soul, we end up buying.

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And the big dreams, the larger than life ones, usually end up in this small, recycled box and from the rainbow color they have when they are born, they turn this grey-translucent non-color and form the foundation of us-that-will-never-be.

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How many of these dreams escape the sorting and sneak out, living in a sort of resistance in the deep seas of our soul, small ponds that long to touch the sea?

From there they come out disguised as a word a friend mentioned, or a phrase we read while we are running around carrying the small, average dreams on our shoulders, or a sound the wind makes while we have stopped and stared out the window. How many of them will ever recover their colors?

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For is it the sunset we see in the sky after those long rainy days, or our dreams, escaping our memories and giving us another chance to look at what-we-could-have-been?

a travel photography blog

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