Week 5 : A Street Collage

Feet, steps, haste
Voices, laughter, ‘excuse me, please’
Running, stopping, running
beep, open, beep, beep, repeat.

Hours seem long, the days are short
Suddenly sitting, resting, wait, was there a sound?
Lunch break. A sigh. Silence.
Refreshing, green lungs,
breathing slowly, everlasting patience

Through endless, flowing, streams of wheels,
writings on the walls keep chatting;
calling for eyes to see and mouths to reply.
The humming sound of manhood
composing its song with mastery.

Sketches of ever-changing places,
where thoughts are born to be great,
dreams build with every minute,
while others just remain a myth.

Relations exist for brief moments only
and peace has many faces.
That singer in the corner,
with his guitar case open,
whistles the lyrics to the symphony of the street.

Week 4 : Bruised

“Cecile?” he said. She looked up as she recognized his voice. He froze. She sat curled up against a wall, as if somebody had thrown and forgotten about her. “Shit! Cecile! Where is he!” he yelled, his lungs were on fire, he fought back tears. She sobbed. “No, shit!” he yelled, his voice suddenly losing strength. She buried her face in her arms. He then kneeled next to her, carefully. He hardly dared to touch her, he feared he would make things worse. He could now see bruises on her arms, drying blood on her clothes. His heart skipped a beat. “You need to see a doctor!” he said trying to help her on her feet. But she slipped out of his arms, “No!” she shouted with a week breath. He stared. “I don’t want anybody to touch me.” And fresh tears filled her eyes. Those wonderful, bright eyes. “But, those bruises, somebody should have a look at them...” he insisted, yet his voice trailed off. “No.” she cried again. She looked at him, her eyes pleading, “I want to go home.” She whispered. His heart ached. He gazed at her face, into her eyes. He still could see the beauty under the sea of bruises. It ailed him to see her broken. “I… I need to know…” he began. She had hidden her face again, shame invading her body. He noticed her tremble. But he had to ask. “How far did he go? Did he…” the question hang between them like a heavy curtain. She suddenly didn’t make any noise; she was holding her breath for a long moment. Too long. He nearly wished he could undo those words, but then his chest felt a small relief, “No.” she whispered. He felt the whole weight of his body drag him closer to the ground. “I fought as hard as I could.” She continued. “Something suddenly scared him.” Her voice was clearer now. Her hand suddenly reached out for his. She even had bruises on her smooth, gentle hand. Her eyes now held his gaze. He felt the urge to kiss her, and drew closer. He gently pressed his lips on her forehead; still afraid he might hurt her. He swore at the one who had so violently raped their souls. The one who had taken the light from her face, but he could still see the spark somewhere, deep in her eyes. Would it come back? Would he ever see it again shimmering on her lips? He didn’t know. He heard her breathing, and was endlessly grateful for this bittersweet sound. Suddenly her gentle hand held his much tighter. He closed his eyes in pain. “Thank you.” Her voice was suddenly calm and had nearly no sound. He looked up at her. Her lips didn’t move, but her face begged again. He nodded. “Let’s go home.” He said.

- Isabel Meine F. Vigil

Special thanks to Charlotte King, Robert Bradley and Lisia Giannecchini!

And as always, thanks for following, everybody!

Week 3 : The Trouble of Inspiration

She lay in the middle of her living room, surrounded by a big chaos of papers, food leftovers and tissues. Her eyes were closed. The sound of her own breath was the only noise in the room. It was probably even the only sound to be heard in the whole flat. Suddenly, she opened her eyes and lifted the blue diary, which had been lying on her chest, over her face. She stared at it for a while, searching. Thinking. Reading something she had written. Tears of despair started to roll down her cheeks with every word she soaked in and before she could even finish reading she grabbed the page furiously and tore the paper out.

She sat up and searched for a pen, never bothering about the aspect of her room, which resembled a scenery after a battlefield. She picked up her diary again and started writing. But only a few seconds later her eyes wandered off again and fell on some chocolate bar papers at her feet. With fury she rose from her seat and kicked it away, she crossed the room with quick, heavy steps and then faced herself in a mirror. Her eyes full of anger and disgust were staring back at her. She covered her face with her arms and pulled her hair with frustration. The expression looking back at her from the mirror was red now. A few seconds passed and then her face relaxed. She studied her reflection, her hair, her eyes, her body. Slowly her mouth shaped into a smile and that smile then turned into a bigger smile and then she burst into laughter. She just laughed at her self, all her earlier frustrations forgotten. With tears of laughter in her eyes she then looked at herself in the mirror, “You're crazy sometimes”, she said.

- Isabel Meine F. Vigil

Thanks for following!

Week 2 : I AM

Green, blue, yellow and red,

Blend me on your palette.

Expressionist medleys of inspiring silence,

Eclectic voices of creative tempest.

An idea. A thought. Love.

Often flying and never staying.

I am youth in my years,

A restless adventurer on an expedition,

In times of frenetic globalization.

The different in the common, and

Of course, the common in the different.

I am wisdom in my failures,

Caught in contradiction,

The challenge in persuing my dream,

The artistic soul of a rebel,

The one who smiles and says “no”.

I am the stage of my World,

Reason in innocent, childish words

who are the characters of my plot.

I am the canvas of my paintings,

Open Windows to my mind.

Art is my way,

Poetry, I am.

- Isabel Meine F. Vigil

Thanks for following! :)

Week 1 : The Self

The Self is not just the essence of the person; it is an idea that goes beyond. It implies the relation with others, with things, with myself. It is the result of when the ME meets the universe.

The ME is nothing else but the consciousness. Without it the Self would no longer be. It is an abstract idea and to really understand it we would need to step out of ourselves and analyze the ME, our existence from a distance. This makes it impossible to ever entirely understand who we are.

It defines us as individuals within our human nature. The Self is composed by the combination of the ME, the culture, our actions, the consequences and the opinion of others. All these elements may be a proof of our existence and our ability to think.

The Self, regardless from all definitions, would have no meaning at all, without a mind mirroring itself in it, trying to figure itself out.

-Isabel Meine F. Vigil