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Unleash your potential

October 3, 2008

There is a time when not knowing what day it is feels very wrong, particularly when you end up buying the stale bread from the shelf. But most other times, it seems just fine.


© Christos Stavrou (untitled, 2008)


There is a poem by Charles Bukowski claiming that…

there are worse things than
being alone
but it often takes decades
to realize this
and most often
when you do
it’s too late
and there’s nothing worse
too late

There is a time when, despite being surrounded by so many people, someone feels their own body freezing out and the spirit turning into a statue from inside out. Suddenly, this time, one cannot simply move away or keep walking backwards and forwards, eagerly compensating for the time running out. In fact, those with the higher antennas might be the first ones left out; amateurs, angels, and professionals altogether… All this despite, again, that we all need – in the end – a certain level of emotional superficiality… And despite how everyone is aware that the sound of petrified legs hardly echo the most wanted and abused word at the moment, ‘friend’.

How could a body like this have a big love anyway!


© Christos Stavrou (untitled, 2008)


The idea of a friend comes handy in all sorts of circumstances, with strangers in the street, with ex-lovers and future-lovers, with passing by naive and handsome twentyyearolds. With private personal heroes and within awfully trivial public accounts. It is well and roundly appreciated.

Even if friendliness in a room full of people could also mean the performance of little repeated routines, by women who can barely pretend to tolerate anyone’s existence – unless there is a compelling reason, and men who never dare to share their leaping originality, unless it is known and approved in another parallel universe.


© Christos Stavrou (untitled, 2008)


The streets are loaded with bodies resting and crawling on the pavements outside bars tonight. This city in the dark is not different at all from what I remember of it. All the weeks and months that you and I were missing, I could imagine people in almost the same pavements, with their fancy clothes getting dirty by the road, and their shoes falling behind in the early hours. Bodies which invite us to join them, and bent over from too much drink, or merely by their own – awkward and simultaneously graceful – gestures, following the friction upon a naked sense of reality; is it loneliness that they run away from?

Usually seeking someone who would liberate the memory of their legs as walking flesh, who would unleash their potential. Before it’s too late. Usually the night is experienced with a certain amount of agony.


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