Lefkosia

How many emotions do you experience a day?
around 335 

How do you know when one emotion has ended and another has begun?
I can't be bothered to answer this moronic question.

Fine, what is your current emotion?
Tired in a kind of sexy languid way, a bit like how I imagine a lion might feel after settling into a new, more spacious, more comfortable lair. 

Leather jackets are made out of animal skin, windows are made out of glass, what are your emotions made out of?
Themselves

Yes, obviously, but what are they?
Feelings

That's just another word, I want to know what the material they are created with is?
me

Stop being difficult, you can't just give me a straight answer can you?
Yes

So you can tell me what the material is, perhaps concrete? Or is it some sort of organic matter, like earth, or a plant?
Yes, it's an organic, living material. Let's call it emotion.

But we're just back where we started. I'm so annoyed.
There we go

What do you mean?
You just gave yourself your answer

?
you said 'I am annoyed'. 

I have moved to Nicosia. Warm air is quivering a house plant. I am not annoyed. Far from it. Maybe as far as the Pentadaktylos mountains I can see in the distance between blocks of flats. One of which has rusted satellite dishes on top, facing up into the blue sky. My mind on top of my body is also facing somewhere, but isn't as certain where. At this moment it is facing these words, and I wonder that yours must also be facing these at your this moment.

Outside I can hear Lefkosia's layers of sound like a moving painting for my ears. Birds tweeting, cars beeping, a motorbike growling, distant rumbling, and the silence that runs down the centre of her broken heart, where a UN soldier's cigarette butt has just landed.

In the inside silence I can hear the noise of thoughts and beyond it a love song that's been playing forever. My heart strings have recently been tuned. Your eyes and lips are the melody. I am listening.

I am not annoyed, I am listening.

η θάλασσα

A cat with a bad eye in the courtyard is sheltering from the rain under a car because the weather has turned. Meanwhile I am standing in the station of my mind and notice that the train of thought bound for depression is departing on platform 1. Having spent most of my adult life there I choose not to get on it. 

    Instead I head (in my head), to platform 3 and 1/3 onto a train called Mantra. When I'm on it my body turns into a field of bliss. Like great sex only using Om instead of genitalia.
    Meanwhile the sea is roaring like it’s hungry for my body to enter it again. Do I have a sexual relationship with η θάλασσα which is feminine in gender? No, quite the opposite. The cold water has a cooling effect, not a heating effect, which I have found to be useful these past few months.

A few days ago I was sitting at a cafe in Nicosia watching a large spit BBQ being attended to by a white-grey bearded man. He was turning long skewers packed full of slabs of meat as fat spat and sizzled over the hot coals. Large swathes of smoke were fuming out into the street. Perhaps my body and yours will one day sizzle on the hot coals of our love? Perhaps it would get steamy and would also involve being turned, like the weather or the spit-roast, whose strong lamb smell is wafting over to my nostrils. I’ve discovered that Cyprus could easily out-BBQ Australia or England. There’s just something about the attention and the quality of the meat perhaps.
    My coffee is placed delicately onto my table by the auburn haired waitress who took my order. Orders are also being given by the Cypriot government, such as being allowed to go to bars but not being allowed to dance, including shimmying. Police were on hand to enforce this. This is an interesting echo of 1920’s USA where shimmying was also banned, albeit on the ground of being too salacious.
    Speaking of the USA and salacity, I have been watching Dawson’s Creek, which has a lot of kissing, which reminds me of the sad fact I haven’t kissed anyone for over a year. I am keen to change this state of affairs, no one seems willing yet to assist me in this endeavour, though I haven't exactly propositioned anyone. Oh look, a thought train to lonesome town, I am stepping onto it without really noticing. No, no, just as it starts moving I step off again. I am the one stepping on and off these trains I realise once again, there is choice involved.

    Earlier I passed a long white bearded, black robed priest coming out of an ancient church. It is said to be built upon where Lazarus was buried, after he died the second time and fled to Cyprus after being persecuted. God, I presume the priest knows, doesn't have hands to receive money, nor vocal chords to vocalise orders, like I did for my coffee to the waitress. Therefore he must pay God with his life and listen carefully to God's non-vocal voice through the written words of men travelling on a train, apparently bound for heaven. It is fascinating that it doesn't strike him as odd that only bodies that possess a penis are the ones God's voice was apparently revealed to. 

Alas, we all have our different modes of transport to our various wanted and unwanted destinations. Please mind the gap between the train and the platform edge when you imminently embark. I am the gap (says the German spiritual teacher).