Not going anywhere, but not here, either.
“It’s not you, it’s – well, it’s not me, either.”
“Well, I’m not going anywhere, remember?”
“You may not be going anywhere, but it’s not like you’re here, with me, either. It just doesn’t look like you have space for me in your life. Everything I feared two months ago, before we embarked on this “adventure,” has come true: the time of ‘I need more’ has come and you’re simply not able to give me what I need. I keep thrashing against the walls of my rational existence and I find no solutions, no way out of our perfectly organized lives. I know what I need: a kindred soul, to see the world as I do, to make me feel less lonely on this horrible journey through life, to spend time with me and show me a new perspective on this noose I have around my neck. How I miss my freedom, but freedom is nothing but a wasteland for me right now!
And it seems like I can’t give you what you need, either. Otherwise, why the constant drinking? Are you trying to drink yourself into oblivion each night, each party? Do you feel as trapped as I do, in circumstances of our own choosing, of love and comfort, and everything laid out and planned, life simple, and, at the end of the day, satisfactory, because, it was our choices that created it? Do you wish for something else at night? A bit of excitement, perhaps, a breath of exotic fresh air? Is that what I am to you? Are you done yet, convincing yourself that I may be able to solve your problems? Because I can’t. And you can’t solve mine, either. I tried. I truly hoped. You were one thing I hadn’t tried before. And it was fun, the conversations, and the revelations, and everything else. There was a glimmer of hope and inspiration, but it only lasted for a fleeting moment. And then you started forgetting. You forgot me!!
Please, don’t misunderstand, I have no doubt you love me. And please, don’t doubt that I love you, too. But the time has come where declarations of love are not enough. It’s being there, with me, that counts way more today. So, my darling, I love you, and farewell!”
It’s Called Acting, Right?
There are just certain things you can’t bring home. Certain things you can’t even unload to the majority of your friends. You know they’ll judge you. And that’s the least of your concerns.
There are certain things you can only share on stage or on the sliver screen, playing a part, pretending it’s someone else who’s actually living that life and feeling those feelings. There, for a fleeting moment in time, you get to step outside of yourself without everyone’s judgement. It doesn’t matter if you’re the actor or just a spectator: you get to be a princess knight who fights dragons, or a peasant boy who gets the girl. You get to be the evil witch who curses the kingdom, or just curses a lot. You get to fill your heart with all these things you know you’re missing without hurting the people you love. It’s called acting, right? It’s all fake, but it fills spaces you didn’t know existed in your heart. Deep dark places that you like to keep to yourself.
Life goes on
Wow. It’s been over a YEAR since I’ve been here. WordPress has got a new UI and all. And I have forgotten how to write, anything, really, to the point where even “thank-you” cards are a struggle (I’ve always hated those anyway). And I should have been in bed a long time ago. Something is gnawing at me though. I’ll give it a shot. Ha, pun intended!
Let’s go the roundabout way. In said more-than-one year, some pretty cool things happened. Or terrifying – it’s all a matter of perspective. On one hand, I’ve ensured that my life is going on some sort of a track, thin and lean as it may be; there’s now a bit of a point to it. I like to think so, at least. On the other, I’ve had to come to terms with the observation that my body is very fragile, that it’s getting older, less cooperative with my mind, and ultimately, it’s the boss of me. Basically, it’s finally starting to register that mortality is a real thing, and it’s got me scared shitless (sometimes literally – this year I’ve had the worst bouts of constipation since I can’t even remember when.) Also, I’ve learned that hormones and chemistry are a very, very powerful thing. More powerful than will (where are you, my cynical 20 year old self?) I’m so glad I was never into drugs.
Ugh, the roundabout way led me to forgetting the point of all this. Maybe the point was to simply put words on paper, errr, screen. Which is so desperately what I need to be doing, but in a different screen. 🙂 Til’ morning!
Ode to a hero
I am where I am – no, not because of you, but because of myself! Because you challenge and inspire me, my unsung hero, my demon, my handsome stranger!
Every night you knocked and begged me to take your homeless heart into mine, to live your pain and celebrate your victories, to scoff at your tribulations, for what’s impossible in your world of make-believe? Every night you inspired me to lose myself in you. And I did. Only to find myself, wilder, stronger, more free than any bird that ever roamed the skies. You were that first step I needed, to climb my stairway to the skies. I look down, and I see that the foundations of my palace lie on your shoulders. But when I look around – you’re not there, it’s only me, it’s always been only me! I’ve built a reality on the foundations of sand. It is so fragile that I don’t dare live it now, for fear it may collapse.
Perhaps it takes a leap of faith, I hear your voice inside, to cross the threshold of that castle of sand. Perhaps I will, one day, have faith again. In you. And then I’ll look around, and I’ll realize, it’s just me. For you are an actor, a mere character on the stage of a theater house. And I – an actress on the stage of life.
Мога ли да те прегърна
„Мога ли.. просто да те прегърна? За малко?“
Поколеба се, но после отстъпи назад. „Не.“
„Разбирам.“
„Не, не разбираш. Не можеш да ме прегърнеш, защото след това няма да мога да те пусна!“
Той стрелна поглед към очите й – тъмни кладенци, и се обърна.
* [translated]
“Can I… just hug you? Just for a bit?”
He hesitated, and then stepped back. “No.”
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t understand. You can’t hug me, because I won’t be able to let you go after that!”
He shot a glance at her eyes – dark wells, and turned around.
Whisper
I whisper now… I whisper about silver grey skies, about dreamers, fools and believers, and all those things I can’t sing about anymore. My voice is gone, like my willingness to get out of bed or even move my eyelids. No, I’m not dying for you. I’m dying for myself. By myself. As it’s always been. In morte ultima veritas. Give me truth, remember?
I was wrong, Cade, all these years ago, we are nothing alike. I did change after all, and I didn’t even realize when I drifted away, slowly, quietly. I didn’t just lose the war. To hell with humanity! I lost myself. You see, some people, they find themselves on the road, learn who they really are, what they’re really capable of (Marker 262). And others, we lose ourselves. We look in the mirror, and we only see a shadow of a previous existence. We make decisions, we play gods. I guess it’s how you know it’s your time to go (The Waters of Mars). But it’s not as easy as changing your body, Doctor, when you have no more bodies left.
Where to, when faith is lost?
It’s almost ironic. You know when you’re little and you hear all the time “believe in yourself,” “ you can be anything you want to be,” etc., except, no one really believes in you, cuz you’re just an ordinary kid. But you have all the faith in the world, all the energy, you know you’ll make it, and you’re ready to cross mountains, and oceans, fight dragons and witches until your dreams come true. You have no clue how, but you know it’ll happen. And then through lots of hard work, sleepless nights and tears you get somewhere, you start putting your prints on the track, and people slowly start listening, and believing you, believing in you and you feel like you’re half way there…
You’re not. It’s barely just the beginning. And it feels good, it does, but it’s also the toughest time. The beginning. It’s where my story ended. The moment people started believing in me, I stopped believing in myself. And we all know that to really make it, you truly need to first and foremost believe in yourself, because some days, that’s all that drives you out of bed and keeps you on your feet. Faith is stronger than coffee, anger, prejudice, bureaucracy, relatives, and the system. Faith is stronger than failure. When you believe, dreams just find a way, or a wiggly mountain path, to come true.
But it is often easier to believe in others than to believe in yourself. And if you don’t have that faith in yourself – well, that’s the end of it.
I often have to remind myself to slow down, and think smaller, because the moment an idea enters my mind, I’m already at the end of it, missing all the little details that may doom it to success or failure. It’s like I’ve already lived through it, and everything that its realization requires is too overwhelming for one person, for just me, so I automatically see it as an insurmountable mountain.
People say you’re not alone. If you only ask for help, people will be there. Perhaps. But the truth is, you ARE alone. I’ve always been alone. I’m still alone. Perhaps I haven’t asked the right people, but no one’s been there when I’ve needed them, how can I trust that this will change. And yes, I have friends, and thousands of acquaintances, I’m not talking about the people who are one click away, or who I talk to every week, or once a year. The thing is, they’re always there, but that’s just it – they are “there”. They have their priorities and I have mine. And these priorities are different. They want different things. They work on different things. I love and respect them and their choices, but we don’t have the same goals. They can’t help me with their talents; I can’t help them with mine. Perhaps that’s the point of it all, of the human race.
Maybe I need to go back to when the world was a much smaller place for me. When everything was possible. When I didn’t have a clue, but slowly things were happening, things were going in some direction, whether I understood where or not… If only I could find the path back to this world, and find a grain of faith!
“Whole, perfectly imperfect, enough.”
Love After Love by Derek Walcott
The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
“In the madness and mayhem of modern life, where every man seems committed to an endless search for approval and esteem of his fellows and peers, no matter what the cost, this poem reminds me of a basic truth: that we are, as we are, ‘enough.’
“Most of us are motivated deep down by a sense of insufficiency, a need to be better, stronger, faster; to work harder; to be more committed, more kind, more self-sufficient, more successful. We are driven by a sense that we are not, as we are, ‘enough.’ But this short poem by Derek Walcott is like a declaration of unconditional love. It’s like the embrace of an old friend. We are each of us whole, perfectly imperfect, enough.”
~Someone else’s… yet so mine.
The world can use an extra smile
“If I lived forever, who knows what I would do? I would certainly get better at the piano. I would try to learn how to paint. I think I would try to read all the books I haven’t read. When I was a child, the house was full of books — the walls were lined with bookshelves — and I remember looking up at them once and thinking, ‘I wonder if I’ll ever be able to read all those books?’ and my mother said, ‘It’s all right; you’ve got loads of time.’ But actually we don’t have that much time — I know I won’t. There will be things I’ll miss out on.”
It’s not an original notion, it’s as old as time – the time we won’t have, you and I. And I didn’t seek out this quote, but it found me – the realization that we have but a stroke of a brush to leave a mark on the canvas of time. Or, do we? Can we say we have anything at all?
I was gonna be all whiny, somewhat cynical and borderline morbid with this post, but I decided to write a tribute, instead. The idea came halfway through a conversation with a friend (oh, these 2:30am skype and facebook inspirational chats that keep me sane!) psychoanalyzing the author of the above quote. Now I want to write something positive. About the real people who (may) have been there, (may) have suffered through enough and (may) have come out on the other side, not to tell their tale, but to inspire with their example.
Shake a stranger’s hand, smile for the camera, hug the kid who ran to hug you, play along, smell the flowers, dance in the rain, be humble, but be not afraid to bare your soul… What are we all so scared of anyway, what’s that horrible monster that they’re gonna see inside? Everyone’s got bad days, but when it gets all that unbearable, close your eyes, change your focus, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll see The moment again, a single moment in time, and just maybe, you’ll see it from a new perspective, and just maybe, you’ll tell yourself “Well, I’m still alive!” Isn’t that a reason enough to smile?
The world can use an extra smile. These are words I need to remind myself shamefully often. Oh, don’t get me wrong, if you’ve read here long enough, you know well enough that I’m the first person who needs to start practicing the message in this post. I guess that makes me somewhat hypocritical tonight after all? I’m still keeping my monsters locked away down deep.. Do you think I should sign up for an acting class? Maybe there I’ll learn how to unleash them and not be afraid? The world can take it. “All world is a stage,” right? Or are these famous first words of a newly-hatched psychopath? Hahaha, I even manage to entertain myself nowadays.
Seriously though, we’re not the same, but we’re all human. We all need inspiration. Those who have learned how to conquer their monsters have first been defeated, and have then come back. Those who inspire do so, because they’ve been inspired by somebody else. Pay it forward!
The longing heart knows no happiness
It drives progress, some will say, exploration and discovery. Progress comes from a necessity for something new, something we did not yet have. But it’s a vicious cycle – as soon as you discover, see, experience, you ask “what’s next?” You launch into a world of new unknowns and conflicting fears.
I see happy faces of happy people all around me. Sure, I know all of you have your struggles and your demons, and yet it seems like – I always miss most what I don’t have. I spent my youth longing to be different (or to fit in? I can’t tell.) And I never really needed it. I needed neither to be different – I already was, nor to fit in – it didn’t make me happy when I did. I was broken. I am broken. And that’s ok. That’s my struggle. It’s always been my struggle to wail after my longing heart and try to quench an insatiable thirst. I wish I could say I’ve always been broken, but that would be a lie. I broke myself, because I wanted to be different, and when I couldn’t take the burden of that choice, I froze, and stuffed myself into a shell of comfort and oblivion. Can you hear me bang against the steely walls at night? Oh, certainly it helped me none to visit the cemetery every year for a new funeral.
Everything I ever knew, a whole lifetime away, just gone, in months, before I even started a new life. I was stranded, on the edge of a new world, and all I could do was cry over all the missed opportunities of the past. I didn’t know what else to do or how else to live. So very little mattered anymore, not even the future. Especially not the future. It was the first time I felt afraid of time. And I broke. Who was there, beside me, I ask, to pick up the pieces? Sure, I can blame facebook and my one thousand “friends.” But the truth is – I broke myself. I froze in time.
As I’m slowly trying to thaw the ice from the inside, I’m so very confused. And why would I make it easy on myself, of course, I had to pick an environment with so many distractions and so many opportunities! Ideas. At least I have ideas now. Far away from the satisfaction of completion, they’re helping pick me up, piece by piece, song by song, word by word, tear by tear.
Some Songs
Some songs just make me want to scream at the top of my lungs. At 3am. Powerlessly.
Examples are Kelly Family’s Mama, Il Divo’s (funnily) Mama, some others… I just don’t have a dark elf or two thousand to direct my rage at. My name is not Loki and I’m not from a silly comic book series. I don’t have anyone I can save to recoup for my sins. ‘Ha, ‘sin’ you say, my pedantic, language-nerd self?,’ I smirk. Pray, is ‘hell’ a better word? To recoup for my personal hell. Nay, sounds just as trivial. The feeling tearing through my innards, however, is anything but trivial. That haunting feeling that I’m taking every wrong step – out of harmony and balance, out of bounds from where I find joy… Let’s dig deeper here, where do I find joy?
In longing, and in dreaming? In achieving? What is left? At the end, after the end, what is left but a tombstone and a name? Sure, a soul or two may grieve for me, but why would I want that – just to make their lives miserable? And don’t start me on that rejoicing-that-I’ve-moved-on thing, cuz a) no one really knows where the heck I’ll have moved on to, no one’s ever come back with HD pictures; b) chances are I’ll still be sorely missed. Despite them optimists rejoicing.
I know I still miss you. I don’t even know why, the candid conversations, maybe? So what’s the point of longing, and of dreaming, of achieving, of running?
I’m gonna run to the edge of the world
feel that I’m gonna get home if I try.
But home was a time, Sharon, not a place…
Нереалистични представи
Преди не бях съвсем права. Все си търсех някой, който да може да ме накара да се разплача. Онези, дето ме разсмиват са лесни, и са много. Хек, всеки божи ден им се радвам – по телевизия ли ще е, на кино ли, някоя случайна снимка в интернет от тия награди или онова интервю. Трябваше ми някой, който да има силата да ме разплаче. Но не е само това. Забравих частта, където трябва да е способен и да избърше сълзите от лицето ми. Нямам представа какви са квалификациите за това. Явно сама не отговарям на тях.
И мен ще има Дядо Коледа да ме пита какъв цвят еднорог искам. Всички останали желания явно са ми твърде нереалистични – къде се е чуло и видяло спокоен живот, да можеш да се наспиш, да си позволиш да се радваш! К’ви са тия нереалистични представи!
*[translated]
I wasn’t quite right before. I was always looking for someone who could make me cry. Those who could make me laugh – that was easy, and there are a lot of them. Heck, I enjoy their company every day – on TV, in the movies, in some random picture online, from this and that award ceremony or interview. But I always needed someone who has the power to make me cry. But that’s not all. I had forgotten the part where this someone should also be able to wipe the tears off my face. I’ve no idea what that requires – clearly I don’t have the qualifications, either.
So, I guess Santa would have to ask me, too, what color unicorn I want. All of my other wishes are clearly too unrealistic – who has ever heard of a quiet life, the ability to get enough sleep, or to allow yourself to be happy?! What are these unrealistic expectations of life?!
Замъкът ми
Обещавам да излизам да си играем, ако обещаеш да ми оставиш замъка на мира.
Вземи си багерите, чуковете, длетата и красивите планове. Не че не искам красота. Но искам – сама. Иначе няма смисъл. Не можеш ти да бъдеш смисълът, съжалявам. Не може никой друг. Ако можехте да бъдете – тогава защо съм аз?
Построих си го, за да ми е сухо и топло през зимата. Високи каменни стени, кулa от цимент и мрамор. Някъде бях писала за замъка си ...it’s where my demons hide… Добре де, още работя по отоплението – не мога да уцеля кога пуска топло и кога не работи, тъпата му камина. Дали пък е от горивния материал? Ще го избистря някой ден. И течове често се появяват, особено по горните етажи. Особено през зимата, като забушуват виелиците. Но и тях ходя да си ги оправям, когато мога. Когато не мога – запечатвам стаите, до по-добри времена …don’t get too close, it’s dark inside…
Някой ден ще ти разкажа. Някой ден може да е бил вчера, а може и да е след вечност. Може да е утре. Може би вече знаеш, понеже ме познаваш, понеже сме си играли заедно в предишни животи. Може би ти разказвам сега, ако ме чуваш. Чуваш ли историята, която крясъците на тишината разказват? Може би е просто тишина. Има нещо красиво и успокояващо в тишината. Лечебно, почти.
Обещавам да излизам. Искам да си играем. Но имам нужда от подслон, когато ми стане студено. Когато сълзите завалят от небето. По-парещи от киселина. Затова, остави ми замъка на мира. Нека си играем в гората.
*[translated]
I promise I’ll come out and play if you leave my castle alone.
Take your machinery, hammers, chisels and pretty plans. Not that I don’t like pretty. But I want it – on my own terms. There’s no point otherwise. You can’t be my meaning, I’m sorry. No one can. If any of you could – then why am I?
I built it so that I can keep warm and dry during the winter. Tall stone walls, a tower of concrete and marble. Somewhere, I had written more about my castle ...it’s where my demons hide… Ok, fine, I’m still working on the heating – I can’t figure out when the heat comes out and when the damnable fireplace is broken. Or is it that the firewood is missing? I’ll figure it out, one of these days. And sometimes, there are leaks, especially on the upper floors. Especially in winter, when the storms start raging. But I go and fix these, as best I can. When I can’t – I seal the chambers, until better times come …don’t get too close, it’s dark inside…
Someday, I’ll tell you. Someday may have been yesterday, or it may be in another eternity. It may be tomorrow. Maybe you already know, because you know me, because we played together, in previous lives. Maybe I’m telling you now, if you’re listening. Do you hear the tale in the deafening silence? Maybe it’s just silence. There’s something beautiful and calming in silence. Healing, almost.
I promise to come out. I want to play with you. But I also need shelter, for when I get cold. When tears start pouring from the sky. Burning worse than acid. So, please, leave my castle alone. Let’s play in the forest.
Dialogues
“Sorry for the delay with this task. I — I was in no condition to complete it earlier. I really wanted to, but I rarely happen what I want nowadays.”
“You know I’m here if you wish to share.”
“No, it’s nothing; no- (one)-thing. Really. I can’t. It’s not that bad. You were there in the beginning, when it was really bad. That mattered. Now is just — now. It’ll pass, and a new now will come. These come often lately.”
*
I think I remembered some big lessons too early. So early that I lost direction.
*
“Sometimes you have to let go of the things you love in life.”
“No. You always have to let go. Because the things and people you love – they are not yours, even if they come back to you. You own nothing but your feelings for them.”
Some days —
— I just want to fall asleep and not wake up. Ever. It’s the days when the answer is “No, Jon.”
And then I go to my friends posts – I want to know they are ok. And they are – sometimes, and sometimes not, and some are posting beautiful things, and even then I can’t bring myself to be happy. And some just pretend to be, but it should be ok, though, cuz they are still strong enough to feign happiness. It should be enough, cuz they are still able to share the beautiful and the happy. I used to be that strong. Now I just want to sleep. Alone. Not pick up the phone, and have the world forget about me until it’s too late. Until it doesn’t matter anymore.
I’ve contemplated including them in these conversations. Asking for advice, in the hope of selfishly sucking some energy, trying to feel what they feel and take what works for me. But I can’t. I’ve become too — inconstant. And I have no right. They need me better than this, I need me better than this. How do I get better if I perpetuate the feeling of “not right”? Besides, they need their energy for the battles they are fighting. God knows they are fighting much bigger fights – after all, I’m only fighting for my life, and they are fighting for others, and for beauty, and I, on average, have it much easier, so who am I to try and take that energy? I’m selfish, very very selfish, but I’m not that self-centered to not be able to recognize that the world is not at my disposal. Anymore.
I catch a glimpse of your pain (lesson/memory?) occasionally. I can’t say sorry enough times, my Friend, my oldest, strongest friend, for picking up all these fights over the years, for your bleeding, and for the fights we will have in the future, and for being — me. I’m sure I’ll be better tomorrow, it’s the comfort of the night alone at home, the shared feelings of some fictional characters and the alcohol that let me open the gates and let the monsters out to play. I have to be better tomorrow!
Happy Now, Jon!
I do feel like I can smile today, in spite of the world! I guess I need to hang out with really cool and inspiring people more often!
Just another job interview, I suppose
I don’t have enough energy to be pissed at myself today. Not as much as it is required to be as pissed as I should be.
I messed up. There, I’m not afraid to admit it, does that fall in the “professional strengths” category, or the fact that I did falls into “professional weaknesses?” It was a question I’ve answered a gazillion times before, a stupid one at that, but I’ve answered and rehearsed it nonetheless. I’ve practiced it. I knew the fucking answer. Then why?
The billion-dollar question – why, indeed! Another thing I’ve rediscovered time after time – I’ve just been lucky before. So extraordinarily, impossibly, unbelievably, improbably lucky! That’s the only explanation for how I’ve managed to do anything at all with my clumsy slow stupid brain. And the next person who mentions something about the value of persistence, hard-work and learning can shove their opinion up their ass! These things don’t mean a broken penny! There’s one thing that counts – presentation! And it’s the thing I suck at.
The importance of lying
Today I learned the importance of lying. Not like I didn’t have a clue before – sometimes I wonder, how, indeed, did I make it so far, by being good old naive idealistic me, how fucking lucky I must have been, kissed by fate, eh, you might say, for even being able to take one step away from my cozy little nest, believing in the value of truth, of ideals, of virtue and wits. How??
None of it matters. What matters is how quick you are at lying. On your feet. Tell them what they want to hear, manipulate. Puppets on a string — well, I learn the hard way. I hated the feeling, when I was young, I thought it was a cultural thing. I thought I was going to find a place where truth would matter, but alas! I should have paid better attention – turns out, a place where truth prospers does not exist. It’s a paradox of time and space. You can either be a wretched fool, philosopher, an artist of a human soul, or a dead fish, swimming with the current, swimming “freely,” in an abundance of success.
Infuriating. Not enough. Or just sad? Sometimes I wish I could turn my grief to anger! Anger is productive, I get shit done when I’m angry. I set goals. I make plans. Grief is just – exhausting.
27 Dec. 2012
Things lost
Oh, you sure think you understand why I cry. Yes, I cry for the things you think you understand. For all of my personal selfish reasons. But I also cry for the things you don’t understand. For the been-there-and-done-that, for the things that died and those slowly dying now. Death of a nation. Of my nation.
It’s an era of change, change and death I live in. It pains me to be a casual observer of ideas and a brighter future being stifled, trampled, crucified. It pains me that people who’re not worth the ground they walk on get to make decisions impacting millions. It pains me that everything I used to know as a child is being erased. Memory by memory, cobblestone by cobblestone. Did I choose so very wrongly? I only wanted — not even sure anymore, I only wanted a way. To Be. Me. God knows I saw no way there, and it’s why I left. Whoever thought it would get this bad? Is it too late to go back? To be a change I want to see? To be a nameless martyr for an uncertain future? What does the future mean anyway – nature’s proven stronger than time. It’s us, humans, with our “culture” I shed tears for. The things that make us human is what I am mourning. The feeling called home – the one I lost some 18 years ago…
It’s all a lesson…
… in not caring. Not caring what happens beyond the walls.
I understand, it’s ok, kids. I understand how much you don’t understand. And it’s all ok, it’s all part of it. Learning, growing, life. Stuff I’m not sure I believe in or care much about lately. God knows I hope you do care about these things, cuz mankind is doomed otherwise. Cuz, just like Timo, “it’s hard for me to comprehend what life is all about.”
I’ll shed some random tears on some random night, for some things you don’t understand, and then some more for other things that I don’t understand, and I’ll just not care again, cuz there’s rarely been anything anyone can say that will hurt me, there, behind the wall of the fortress of cold.
Not since — not since the Wind, that bastard, playing his tunes on a mountain top afar, sending me chunks of words he hopes I understand. But I don’t. I don’t care now. He’s not by my side, he was an illusion, I know now. Where were you, Wind, for five years? And before? All these nights I begged, I cried and died. Do you think anything inside me is still alive? For more than a night? After I’ve betrayed all we used to day-dream about? Do you think I care?
Not since — not since Death. I don’t care to ask you anything tonight, my Frienemy! Go scare someone else tonight! Life is scarier than you nowadays, on this Friday night, under the desert stars. The fear, captured in a picture. Aperture 3.5, shutter speed at 30sec, ISO 3200. And yet, I don’t even care enough to share it with these people who wonder why I’m being cruel. And it’s strangely ok. We don’t necessarily speak the same language, they and I, except for maybe one or two. That’s why I have Reflections. It’s the reason I’ve always had Reflections.
Aye, foolish of me to say. I care about my cold fortress of my made-up worlds, don’t I? Ain’t that why I sometimes get all wound-up and end up discarding reality, making real people suffer? Aish, if I only cared! People are so fragile and flimsy, they betray you when you need them most. Just like me in this body. They’re asleep, or busy, or all wrapped-up in their lives, and their learning, and their growing. Good, that’s how it should be! People should inspire other people. How else are they going to preserve this so-precious Life I know so little of? The universe would be a really messed-up place if it weren’t that way. Aye, “my reputation is the one of a fool,” but who cares about us fools, Tobi? Can you love someone else before you know how to love yourself? Can you care about something, before you learn how to care at all?
“It’ll be alright,” I lied
Always mesmerized by death, a one-way portal to a land uncharted, ha, isn’t that an ideal fantasy setting? A world without a map. Just like we dreamed to see in every other book, and oh, so few achieved it. Religion, faith, philosophy clothing our deepest darkest fear that there is, in fact, nothing past that portal… It’s exhausting to don these comforting masks of deception “it’ll be alright;” “he’s at a better place;” “she’s not suffering anymore.” But I am. Nothing is alright. Nothing is ever going to be alright again. How do I tell you that, my friend? How do I tell you that when someone you love dies, when a part of you dies, nothing will ever be alright, ever again? How do I protect you from the crippling pain in the throat that chokes you every time you want to utter a word of comfort, making it sound fake and insincere, making you sick to the stomach for the lies you have to wear on your face.
During the day – don’t ask me to feel. I can’t feel in front of you if you need me to comfort you. I don’t know how to do it. At night – don’t ask me to comfort you. I’m sorry, sorry, sorry, I can’t say sorry enough times or with big enough letters – I can’t. I can’t not feel. I can’t not cry. I can’t tell you it’s ok, I can’t tell you you won’t miss him. I can’t tell you they went to heaven, because I’m not sure I have a concept of heaven. If I ever had, it’s been so long ago, or for so short a time. And if we create our own heaven and hell, then I feel that I am doomed to agony, so I don’t want to believe that, either. But then I know oh, so very few truly happy souls that it looks like heaven may be a terribly lonely and underpopulated place.
Forgive me, friend, for I never learned how to share nor pain, nor comfort. Perhaps nor love, nor joy. Feelings always belong to oneself, and one’s soul chooses when or how to feel…
Happy endings/beginnings and miracles
I tried crying tonight. It hurt too much. I’ve become so intolerant to pain, to that sickness in my stomach. There’s been too much and too little going on in my life at the same time. There’s been too much of these fairy tale endings (beginnings?), the hopes of them, blind faith, forcing itself onto me, because, frankly, do I have a choice to not have it?
Something to believe in, eh, Jon? In a world that gives you nothing, I need something to believe in…
All these fairy tale endings that seem to be happening to everyone, in every other story. Or are these the ones I hear about? Is this why I was always such a sucker for tragedy?
Your feet are grounded still, you’re reaching for the sky. Don’t let them clip your wings, cuz I believe that you can fly!
I have someone to thank today. A friend. For choosing one of these miraculous endings/beginnings of an era, for trusting God-knows-what in his gut, for taking action, perhaps taking a stand against his own self. For making a really stupid decision. For making me think about all the really stupid decisions I never made, but could have. For making me wonder if he’s really truly deeply happy with it. I’ll ask him someday, make no mistake, but not now. A coward like me needs to know. Coward? Nah, a businessman! “Was it worth it,” would be my question, although I think I would know the answer.
And yet, I feel some uneasiness in my stomach. As if something ominous will happen, as if I somehow know that reality will find a way to manifest itself and shatter this happy ending, turning it into miserable agony. I pray that it disappears, this feeling. Not just covered in oblivion, I want it gone. I want to believe in your happy ending/beginning, friend! For me! Make it work. Please. Then maybe I will dare trust in my stupid decisions again! God knows I have a couple lined up, waiting for the word to be spoken. Some waiting for years.
Gonna take a miracle to save you this time, and your savior has just left town. It ain’t all for nothing, life ain’t written in the sand. I know the tide is coming, but it’s time we made a stand, with a miracle!
An Affirmation of Pieces Glued Together
Sometimes, I forget. Deep in my heart, I forget that we are the makers of our own stairway to heaven or hell. At any one moment, with every wish and every sacrifice, thought, emotion, we write the pages of our history. So often lately I let myself get carried away by the steady current, chasing an elusive stability, getting wrapped in details, because all that inner energy needs to be spent somewhere.
This is when I need my stories – to inspire and to soothe my anger – the stories of other men going against the current, against all odds of defeating it. An immigrant businessman’s son, who grew up in an emblematic American dream, with a degree in engineering, returned to his home country to become an actor, not even knowing how to speak his own language. And – made it. So much so that millions across the world know him.
It’s not even the plot of a movie, or a TV series. It’s a true story, worthy of televising to inspire generations. Is there anything impossible if you believe? If you truly want it? Ah, there’s the drag – if you truly want it… There’s the question I always had an answer for, before something snapped inside. That blade that made me forget.
Of course, money helps. It gives you that confidence that the world is yours like nothing else. Grown up to believe that you can either follow your heart or make money — well, I suppose I was never poor enough, so I chose to follow my heart. But then life hit with its obligations, and I started losing the faith that a heart is worth following – such little thing, so fragile and fickle, broken in so many pieces, scattered across the world, each pulling in its own direction. If you try following them all, you’ll lose your way, not once, but a myriad of times. Ah, there’s my answer now – my broken heart. Nothing like a shattered soul to leave you standing in the middle without a clue of what you truly want. Direction? Goal? A journey? An artistic accomplishment, mayhaps? Recognition? Glory? Power? All these words – how about simply satisfaction? That’s why it was easier before, that’s why I had all the answers, and I remembered, everyday, that each day is my choice to take a step further – a battered soul knows no boundary it cannot cross, but a shattered one has crossed them all – in pieces.
All that’s left for now is try to remember – each affirmation that I still hold the pen that writes my story glues tiny shards of my broken heart together.
Rambling
Hope is an expensive commodity nowadays. The truth is, i don’t really have much to tell you today. I’m not feeling any more or any less hopeful than I did, say, yesterday, but I felt like saying something for no good reason. I feel like I need to be writing, but all I want to do is listen, learn, make decisions, apply the facts. I want to read, too, yes, but I’m afraid of endings, of all that time dedicated to a story which ends. I mean, I have the same problem with tv shows, but it’s somehow easier, there are so many of them, and they are over quicker, the characters somewhat more tangible.
It’s hard to explain. That lack of hope for the current that carries me called life. It’s also hard to explain why most coherent things I have to tell nowadays I end up addressing to an ocean. In letters, put in bottles, tossed into the ocean, never to reach a shore. Maybe I should just rename the whole damnable blog, but what with all the splitting of the worlds — take no notice of the ramblings of a mad woman!Maybe I should start a whole series with this title. I still find it funny that people and bots are more interested in this, the outer shell, than… Nah, it’s always been this way. And you know the answer to all the troubles in the world? Chocolate! A chocolate Santa Claus!
It’s lonely at the top
And you know why? Because no one makes it to the top without sacrificing things that make them human. I’m not at the top, and that probably means that I haven’t sacrificed enough. But it also means that there are still people who may conceivably love me, who know me and still love me.
You can’t know all about me and still love me. I barely do. And I am — me. Despite all my egoism, it takes so much effort to love myself sometimes, how can I expect it from other people? It’s so exhausting though, being this person that others can love, and being so much else underneath. Maybe I needed to go into acting after all, I play the part so well sometimes. I used to. I slip more often now.
And there, you’re telling me, there is no probability of me making it, that proverbial grade called success! Who are you to know? Who am I? I’ve traveled roads you’ll never dream of, and I’ve made it big, I’ve made it bigger than you’re likely to experience. You’re as big as your dreams are, they say, but it’s not a big deal to dream when you have all the tools to make them come true. It’s when you have nothing that your dreams are worth the world!
Will you love me if I make it? No, you fool, I’ve made it already. I’m not even half-way through, and I’ve “made” so much, that I– I sometimes don’t want to make anything else anymore. So many messes. So much pain. So many promises I could never fulfill. And even now you don’t love all of me! Perhaps no one but my mother ever did. Perhaps no one should…
It’s not too late, please do not challenge! I will regret it, and so may you. I fear the lonely top, but one thing that’s stronger than my fear is my anger. How do you think I made it this far?
Ode to Daily Routine
Using the days to cry, the nights to dream my nightmares, and the time in between to smile…
Outside, the sun keeps scorching the pavement.
Come twilight, my friend, when I’m no longer alone,
accompanied by shadows from the past.
We drink merrily and feast on thought and feeling,
forgiving weaknesses, harsh words and spear wounds,
forgetting nothing.
Come twilight, come the morn,
drained from our musings,
I fall into sweet slumber,
racing time and space again,
a nightmare, turned a dream by thoughts of you,
of days gone-by, of days to-come, of parallel worlds.
Sometimes the only nightmare is the waking.
Sometimes, I’ve lost you even there.
Wake up more exhausted from the action movie in my head.
And then – to spot a picture, a smell, or sound, and to cry again, and again, and again.
And then to smile.
‘Tis a life none can claim was squandered.
Ha, the irony!
Been writing lots of letters lately.. Never to be sent. So often that I’ve neglected to reflect on things, the universe, myself. Ha, the irony!
Reflecting’s all I’ve been doing lately, but I just chose to share it with that one reader, that vast nothingness of a digital ocean, that private inner — other me, and yet so different! It’s ok, it can’t hurt me, just like I can’t hurt myself. Except, well, in the long term. Ha, the irony!
No, my reflecting, I’ve been told, or rather, shown, on numerous occasions, mind you, hurts. Other people. Those who don’t, or simply mis- understand it. You should never care, a voice deep within me whispers, for who has ever endured the intensity, the persistence of a brilliantly scattered mind, let alone – soul? A few years at best you should give them! And there – I was dreaming of eternity! Ha, the irony!
There’s nothing brilliant about it – I steal all my inspiration from other places now. Have I always? Mayhaps! Whatever it may take to drag my wretched spirit out of the mud.
With all my sincere irony,
To be continued…
Горе Крилете
– Горе крилете! Ще стрелям!
Той извърна бавно глава към мен, в погледа му повече лед отколкото вътре в мен:
– Не можеш. Да ми сториш нищо. Аз съм безсмъртен.
– О-о-о. Я не ме предизвиквай! Момчета, режете!
Две замахвания на меч, по-светкавични от ей оная мисъл, която ми мина преди малко, че има алтернативен свят без насилие. Няма. Отиде си. Беше светкавична.
Нито капка кръв. Само бели пера. Понесоха се наоколо като есенни листа, обрулени от страстния октомврийски вятър. Някои от тях посивяваха, други почерняваха преди още да докоснат земята.
– Шефе, какво да правим с тия криле?
Вярно е, подчинените ми са некомпетентни малоумници. Както над деветдесет и девет процента от населението на този свят. Какво според вас се прави с ангелски криле?
– Събираме им перата за възглавници, какво! С другото ще летим. Прибери ги в самолета! А ти – сега ще идваш ли с нас доброволно?
– Ще дойда. Но не доброволно.
– Както желаеш. На мен ми е все тая. Аз изпълнявам поръчка.
– Не, ти изпълняваш себе си. И ще продължаваш така още цяла година. Но после ще ти мине. Ще захвърлиш и крилете. После ще бъде както преди.
В гласа му студът направо струеше на ледени ками.
Аз пък напук отвръщах с огън в моя:
– Знаеш ти нещо за преди, или за после! Един дол дренки сте, всички ангели! Живееш за мига, от тоя свят в онзи, от онзи в тоя, много лесно така да си летиш наляво-надясно, пък смъртните – кучета ги яли. Кой мре, какво се ражда – никой не му пука, само баланс да има, а?
Пауза. Пак се хващам, че говоря повече, отколкото искам. Тикнах му цевта в слепоочието и продължих:
– Смъртни не останахме, приятелче. Тия патрони трепят онова, безсмъртното в нас. А си мръднал, а си станал на решето. Да те видим сега без криле.
– Ще ми поникнат нови, някой ден. Пак ще летя.
– Е, ние пък ще летим сега. А ти до тогава ще поседиш в клетка. Да погледаш от долу какво е, от дъното, от леглото на една болнична стая.
– Какво ти сторих пък на тебе? Защо си мислиш, че ще можеш да летиш с моите крила? Не те познавам даже.
Трескаво бръкнах във вътрешния джоб на коженото си яке и извадих портфейла си. Показах му снимката.
– Момиченцето ми беше на седем. Левкемия. Даже не я приеха за лечение. – После другата: – А това беше на двадесет и една. Учеше за пилот – все живееше сред звездите. Един ден един от вашите й се изпречи пред двигателя на самолета. Накрая и морфинът не беше достатъчен.
– Продължавам да не виждам защо обвиняваш мен за грешките на –
Той млъкна изведнъж. Погледът му наистина замръзна този път. Върху снимката. След няколко мъчителни секунди продължи:
– Нея я помня. Аз бях. За седемгодишната обаче не знам.
– Спокойно, аз знам. Продължавам да го търся. Това ни е ролята на протекторите.
– Но тя… тогава… Искам да я видя пак, както в онзи ден, както всички дни преди него, аз само й се възхищавах, на хъса, на майсторството. Онзи ден беше грешка, литнах по грешна траектория. Не бях планувал да троша двигателя на самолета й. Позволи ми да поговоря пак с нея.
– Няма я вече. Тръгна си. Морфинът вече не действа. Както ти казах, изпълнявам мисия. Сега мърдай най-сетне. Килия те чака, пък от там се възхищавай на каквото щеш.
Ръгнах го с цевта в гърба и той се обърна; с все така вледенен поглед и малко по-малко мускулна съпротива тръгна пред мен.
Повървяхме през мъгливите облаци, следвайки пиукането на навигационната система, която единият от помощниците ми носеше. Бях потънала в собствените си мисли: отмъщение, разплата, бъдещи мисии, тренировки. По едно време стигнахме самолета. Свалих оръжието. Той понечи да се обърне към мен. Пак го вдигнах. Не знам защо. Знам, че нямаше да ме атакува. Болеше го твърде много. Процесът на поникване на нови крила ги обезсилва докато цялостното формиране не е приключило. Обикновено започва веднага след отсичането на старите и продължава няколко месеца. Всъщност това само го бях чувала; никога не го бях виждала с очите си. Как може веднага след отсичането да започне процес по създаване на нови?
– Спри! – извиках му. Той спря.
Приближих се, да погледна отворените рани. Нямаше и следа от кръв. Наместо това, няколко рошави гарваново-черни мъхчета се бяха заформили от двете страни на плещите му. Докоснах ги. Той потръпна, но не помръдна.
– Удивително, – промърморих. Постоях така още няколко секунди, възхищавайки се на неповторимата физиология на тези създания. Какво несъответствие на изящество и безчувственост. После го хванах за рамото и грубо го бутнах напред в кабината. – Усещаш ли ги как растат в теб, силата им?
– Не. Болката е твърде голяма. Но знам, че един ден ще са там.
Декември 2007
*[translated]
Put Your Wings In The Air
“Freeze! Put your wings in the air! I’ll shoot!”
He turned his head towards me, slowly. His gaze was icier than the way I was feeling at the moment.
“You can’t… do anything to me. I’m immortal.”
“Oh, is that a challenge? Guys, strike!”
They did – two strokes of the blade, faster than any thought of non-violence could cross my mind. There is no world without violence. It’s gone. It’s always been gone, I just didn’t know it, I had hope.
Not a drop of blood. Only white feathers. They soared all about us like autumn leaves, shaken by the chilling October wind. Some of them started turning grey, others turned black before they even touched the ground.
“Boss, what do we do with the wings?”
My subordinates are morons, I know. Just like more than ninety-nine of the inhabitants of this world. What do you think you’re supposed to do with the wings of an angel?
“We collect their feathers for pillows, what do you think, idiot? With the rest – we fly. Put them in the aircraft. Now, you – are you coming with us voluntarily?”
“I’m coming. But not on my own volition.”
“Suit yourself. I couldn’t care less. I’m fulfilling an order.”
“No, you’re fulfilling yourself. And you’ll continue to do so for at least another year. But then you’ll get over it. You’ll throw away the wings. It’ll be just like before.”
The ice in his voice was pouring out in nearly visible daggers. I, on the other hands, answered with as much fire as I could muster:
“What the hell do you think you know about before? Or about after? You, angels, you’re all the same! You live for the moment, now in this world, now in that, flying here and there with not a care in the world! What about us, mortals? Who dies, what is born – no one cares, as long there’s a balance, eh?!”
Pause. I said more than I intended to. Again. I cocked my pistol to his temple and continued:
“There’s not many us, mortals, left anymore, buddy. And by the way, these bullets are designed to kill that immortal part of you, whatever the hell that is. So, don’t think of any funny business unless you want to turn into a vegetable. Let’s see what you do without your wings for a change.”
“New ones will grow in time. I’ll fly again.”
“Well, and we’ll fly now. In the meantime you’ll sit in a cell. You get to take a look at what it’s like from down below, from the bottom, from a hospital room.”
“What did I ever do to you? Why do you think that you can fly with my wings? I don’t even know you!”
I pulled out my wallet from the inner pocket of my leather jacket. I showed him the picture.
“My little girl was seven. Leukemia. They wouldn’t even admit her to the hospital.” Then I showed him another one. “And this one was twenty-one. She was studying to become a pilot – she always wanted live closer to the stars. One day, one of your lot cut straight through the engine of her airplane. Flying about. Towards the end, even the morphine wasn’t enough.”
“I still fail to see why you blame me for the mistakes of –”
He suddenly fell silent. His gaze was fixated on the picture. A few heavy seconds later, he continued:
“Her. I remember her. It was me. But I don’t know anything about the seven-year-old.”
“That’s fine, I know. I’m still searching for that bastard as well. It’s my job, as a protector.”
“But she… then… I wish to see her again, like she was, that day, all the days before that one. I only admired her. So much passion, so much skill in her flying! That day was a mistake. I flew down the wrong trajectory. I didn’t plan to break the engine of her airplane… Let me talk to her again!”
“She’s gone now. She left. The morphine couldn’t keep her. Like I told you, I’m fulfilling a mission. Now, move! A cell is waiting for you – from there, you can admire whatever you want!”
I shoved the barrel of my pistol into his back and he turned to walk, his icy gaze unchanged, but his muscles slightly less tense.
We walked through the heavy clouds, following the beeping of the navigation system that one of my guys was carrying. I was deep in my own thoughts: revenge, bounty, future missions, trainings. We reached the aircraft. I lowered my weapon. He tried to turn to me. I cocked the pistol back up. I don’t know why. I knew he wouldn’t attack me. He was in too much pain. The process of growing new wings drains all of their energy until it’s complete. It usually starts right after the wings are severed and continues for several months. In fact, I had only heard about it, I had never witnessed it with my own eyes. It seemed fascinating – to be able to start the recovery process immediately.
“Stop!” I yelled at him. He did.
I stepped in closer to examine his wounds. Still no trace of blood. Instead, several shaggy raven-black fuzzies had formed around the cuts, just below his shoulder blades. I touched them. He flinched, but didn’t move.
“Remarkable,” I muttered, staring for a few more moments at the marvelous physiology of these unique creatures. What a mismatch of fine brilliance and lack of compassion. Then I grabbed his shoulder and pushed him into the cabin. “Do you feel them growing inside, already?”
“No. It hurts too much right now. But I know, one day, they’ll be there again.”
The moment you died
As the years pass by I become less and less susceptible to death. To that one moment when something inside you snaps. You hear it snap – the sound is piercing inside you, the air outside is still, because you forgot to breathe. No matter if it’s a young sapling or a thick branch of a mighty oak, the pain is just as sharp, the moment – just as clearly defined.
The moment you died. For me. Perhaps it was something that you said. Or something that you didn’t. The phone call I never got that night, waiting by the phone.
Sure, there will be the times I’ll remember you – I’ll remember what it felt like, these short moments of happiness, when I dared smile a happy smile with the universe – ah, my jealous universe whose mission is to seek and destroy every spec of happiness I’ve dared feel…. Now, at your funeral, I go back to these brief moments, and they seem just as brief… almost — non-existent — as if they did not happen, with each second, were they just a dream?… Was I dreaming all these nights, falling asleep before the monitor? It seems that way, more than ever… You may have haunted my reality, love, once upon a time, but thankfully, you never got to haunt my dreams, not like a true Love would. And be that as it may – I shall dare say I’ve known true love, better than most – the sickening kind, the one that makes you move mountains with despair, the one that sends you across oceans, thousands of miles from home, yet never to achieve it — the one that’s too good to live in this reality… As your best friend and worst enemy, I wish you this kind of love – the bittersweet taste of complete devotion. I wish you successful growing up — in your grave! Rest in Peace!
So close
So close, yet so far away…
Divided by time, and distance, simply divided.. united we stand!
One cause, one heart! One dream, one illusion. One path to freedom, elusive, marginal, yet tangible, in our imaginary world, it’s there – love!
Beyond time and space. Beyond our divide. Simply beyond… reality!
You lure me to a shadow world – a world of joy – I longed to believe in. I believed. And now I only long.
You grab the hand of my soul and pull – “be not afraid!” Then why are you? Or? Did I mistake your boldness for a fear? My own? So it must have been. I don’t know you yet. I only know your promises. Of beauty, and indulgence, trust and magic… Thou shalt forgive my insecurities, milord. From too much trust I lost my soul, my heart, which now belongs to you, has witnessed one too many false confessions. It threads lightly, stealthily, so hush, try not to force it to this world or that. You paint too many pretty pictures. But in a world of brutal force and false pretence I’ve learned to let the pictures move… until they settle.
20 August 2010
First Love…
Despite all the evidence I’ve gathered recently that human beings are way too inferior to know the meaning of this feeling, I still catch myself believing at times that real Love is never-ending. I know, I know, humans change, how silly of me, trying to be a “higher being” and all that crap. What am I, an elf, after all? Duh!
And yet, if real Love is the one that truly makes you move mountains and go through hell, and endure all pain, you know, endure the pain that’s called life, the never-ending, all-fulfilling, life-saving, light-bringing, heart-lightening, purpose-defining feeling, then we only love once! And forever, yes, once and forever, and we only truly love our first love! The first love that made us brace ourselves, take arms against the world, take care of our own shit instead of whining about it, and accept that we’re alone from now on… that we have always been alone, maybe without even realizing it; that every body, every other person in our life is just a filler for our brain and body. We are told we need to make sense of everything, of our little world, and we start assigning roles, and putting people in them, and think rationally, and… we forget how to be ourselves anymore, how to be true to ourselves.
Only the rare moments remain, when we make these irrational decisions to follow our hearts, to go with our gut, these moments, when the world calls us “crazy” and only we understand why we choose the rocky road as opposed to the empty freeway! The rare moments when we gush our souls out pouring tears and screams into a long forgotten love song, which, hey, we don’t really mean for anyone in particular! Anyone, but our First True Love… And how do you know it is not you?… Well, there’s a simple test – did I change my life for you? Did you change yours for me? Did we even know each other?
03 September 2009
No Second Chances
Really, it was just a job interview. It felt like a first. They always feel like a first. She was so nervous, so passionate about this job. It was the dream job she’s been hoping for ever since day one in this town.
Just when whatever small piece left of her heart was ready to explode, she thought of another excitement to add to her life. An excitement, not necessarily a positive one. A date. And then her rational mind just started listing them all – all the losses, that she never really found the time or reason to grieve for, and the other losses, the unreal ones, that she was already grieving for… all the injustice in the world – how some people have it real easy in life – financially, or just because they happened to be born in the “right” family. Well, that’s stupid – she knew it, yet it felt that way so many times… All the anger that you eventually learn to let go of.
I guess that’s how you feel when you “unroot” yourself from your “forest”, and go out chasing the wind. But catching the wind is not enough, really, because sometimes you get caught up in achieving the perfection you yearned for, and you forget why you even started – to have fun, no? To see what life has to offer? To take the bull by the horns, but not be afraid to fall, to climb again, to fall again, to climb again…
No, everything had to be final in her life. Final decisions, final choices – what’s done is done, no second chances…. Why was it so hard to accept that there are second chances in life?
Well, maybe because in reality you almost never get a second chance. When you die, you don’t come back from the dead. Well, Jesus did, they teach you, but hey, you ain’t Jesus, and neither is the loser you used to date up until a few months ago. People don’t come back. Dead people stay dead. Which is why you try so hard not to screw it up the first time around. Remember K-Pax? “So you better get it right this time around, because this time is all you have!”
05 June 2009
Cared About
You used to make me laugh, not cry, remember? When did that change, my friend? Was it these cold lonely December nights? Was it that sunny Sunday afternoon? Was it… me that changed?
You care about me? You hypocrite! Yes, I believe you! But “care about” is not the same as “love”! I’m tired of people who care about me, you know, I’ve had enough! I can take “care” of myself! I need someone who can Love me! Even when I can’t love… myself… or you…
So, save your care! If you’ve got anything else to offer, I may consider it.
29 September 2009
If you love me, lie to me
Because it’s easier this way. Because I still have hope. Because there is still life, and roads to travel, and souls to meet, remember? Say it again! And again! “Tell me you don’t love me!” Because this gives me hope. Because I cannot fathom that distance, or misunderstanding, or miscommunication, or time, or anything earthly can stand in the way! In our way! Because, nothing is impossible, remember, not even death can stand in the way! Death cannot do us part from those whom we truly love – they live on, in our memories, in our actions, in our beliefs! Death is no match for love, my friend! You think I have forgotten my father and mother the moment I put a fistful of earth in their grave? Do you think that I ever will?
Then what makes you think I will forget you, my lover, my soulmate, my brother under the sun?
Like a sealed bag of candy
If you look at my writing habits – you’d think, winter is actually the time to do work. It may be. I still consider summer a stronger period. Not because I accomplish more. The opposite, in fact. It’s because I care more. Recently I’ve been fighting an awful disease – it’s called “I don’t care”. I suspect I’ve had it for a few years. It’s like nothing’s worth “caring” about. It’s like when your life enters the perfectly lined tracks of “it works that way, why bother being creative” and when you’ve already accomplished more than most of your peers (give them time to catch up, eh?), but there’s so much more to accomplish, there’s so much more you tell yourself you want, but in reality… what do you want?
You’re not a rocket scientist. You’re a simple person. Reaching out, trying to break the bubble, but it costs you so much more effort than it does to other people – the other talented people, who were born with it. IT – the natural ability to get things right the first time. To care, to love what they do.
Is it worth the effort? My effort? Is anything I do worth it?
Maybe, you would say. Of course. For some people. Is it worth it to me? I don’t really know, I don’t care…
I used to feel a lot more before, you know. Anger, passion, love, disappointment, happiness, satisfaction, hate. I used to look at a blossomed bush and feel its beauty. I still stop and stare at flowers and bushes. I still say they’re pretty. I say it, but I’m not sure what that means anymore. Especially if I walk along with someone who has flower allergies. What’s true to me is not true to you. Where is the truth? There is no truth. There has never been. Just some convictions I used to blindly accept as mine. Why blindly? Because everything was so much simpler when I didn’t know that much. Have you ever met a happy philosopher? Is peace a happy state of being? No, it isn’t – there is no emotion in peace. There is no pain. But there is no happiness either. There’s just gray.
I learned somewhere that pain was a choice. You know, pain hurts. I’m not a fan of hurting – it’s a self-preservation mechanism or something – we strive to stop the pain. And so I did. I chose to let it go. I chose to not accept pain as part of my life. I chose to let my rational mind take control over my hurting soul. I chose to kill the things that I cared about. I chose to make these decisions, and I didn’t realize that you can’t just isolate the pain and get rid of it, because emotions go together. Like a sealed bag of candy – you can’t just pick the Milky-Ways and throw them away, you’ve gotta throw the whole bag away. And so I did, not realizing that I’m getting rid of the only thing that made me who I am. Or maybe realizing it and still doing it – oh, now tell me that I’m not cruel, that I’m not a murderer!
I’m not a rocket scientist. I’m not smart or savvy, and even if I were – what good does that do to my writing? Writing is emotion, wild and pure. Remember – “in every story worth telling there is a love story.” And when that is gone… What is left of a story to tell?
Sure, you can tell other people’s stories. You can try to write comedies. But how do you know what is important and what to put in there? That’s why I don’t write as much as I used to. I’m not sure what matters anymore. What you care about is not what I care about. I care about—nothing. Because I threw that bag of candy away. To survive. And I’m not sure there’s a living soul on this planet who can bring it back to me. There used to be… Not anymore…
When ‘forever’ means Forever…
When ‘forever’ means Forever…
It then turns into a lifetime, then – a year, a few months. Then – a night.
A night of my life is all I have to give you, my sweet boy. Because I gave out my “forever”, and my lifetime; I gave out my year, and the last few months I’ve been in this long-distance relationship, that’s never gonna work in ways that make me Me.
You’ve seen Me more than many. There, in Roseland or in Hawthorne Theatre; there driven by the wild current of a metal song; there I’d be gushing myself inside out, dancing, screaming “Bye-bye Beautiful” or “Shamandalie” and “Graven Image”; there I’d be crying like a little child in the darkness of the concert-hall, hiding my sobbing in the melody.
But I am content that way – aren’t you? You’ve got your sweet girl down in Texas, waiting for you, hoping. And all I’ve got’s a suitcase and my dreams. “One day I will…” you know, but not today. Because I’m too young. “You’re fuckin’ 19 years old and you’re on a movie set, what more do you want?” That’s probably the biggest compliment anyone ever gave me. And he didn’t even realize it, the poor bastard. He was a loser, like all of them, miei uomini, he never saw Me. Years later, he still hasn’t, with all his Italian finesse, he never got to see Me the way you do, my boy, my stranger in the night. And you will never know, and we both are content that way, for all I have to give you is just one night of my life. When ‘Forever’ means forever, and it’s taken, battered, thrown away, when ‘Forever’ has just died in my very arms, just this past winter… I started living for the night. For a couple of moments. For that single moment of ecstasy, when galaxies are born, when I’m feeling my body too small to contain Me…
18 April 2008
Junkies Unanonymous
I now kind of start realizing how people in rehab feel. You know why they go on? You know why they go back? You know why they feel like they’ve found a reason, live drug free for a while and then pick it up again?
It’s the pain. The more time you stay away from it, the farther down you push it – it has no way of escaping. It collapses, ever smaller, tightens up, and forgive my repetitive metaphor of black holes, but I don’t know any better. Since there’s nothing… else… to describe the pain – ever smaller, ever more powerful, more dangerous.
You know how in rehab you feel like crap for the first few days, but you force yourself to stay away from the needle, from that liberating experience that lets you travel to these new galaxies, to see the beauty where it doesn’t exist, to reach out and touch the world, and like it. You force yourself to live in reality, to feel the pain, you lie to yourself how beautiful it all is, how much better the world without drugs is. And after so many lies – no, you still don’t believe yourself, but the world around you kind of seems to believe in the lie, and you silently consent to this reality torture. You accept the pain, give it a new name and pray your life ends sooner, but you know it won’t because you haven’t achieved half of the damn things you were supposed. All of a sudden the whole freaking world is full of all opportunities you used to dream about, but you just don’t wanna do a fuckin’ thing about them.
You don’t have the energy. Because the pain keeps draining it all. And pain becomes your new addiction. You hate it, but you can’t let go. Because if you do – you go back to your sweet chemically-induced fantasies that the freakin’ reality is actually a livable place. So you stick to the pain. It reminds you that you’re alive. Your mission ain’t complete yet. Fuck it.
You’re away from the drugs now, still in pain, but not agonizing; you don’t see them any more, not on daily basis. You don’t get phone messages or senseless emails with the daily stupid article from them. You’ve got the memory now, the memory of the good life, yeah, the one your brain is so desperately trying to erase, that you’re ready to sacrifice your life for. You know, like they did it in the 40ies – a little bit of electricity through your head, reboot the system, forget you ever made the mistakes you made, forget the fact that you would repeat them again, and again, because, remember you’re addicted to pain. Pain became your painkiller….
But when pain gets more painful than the pain it kills, you need a break. Everybody needs a break, come on, that’s why you get paid vacation and all that shit. Yeah, you need a break from yourself. From pain, from reality, again, and what a better break than a good trip… out of everything. That’s why you go back for more. That’s why you never trust an addict.
That’s right, stay the hell away from me. I’m just now kind of realizing how pain kills pain. How detox works. I can live with it. If you don’t call. And if you do – better tell me I can live with you, forever, my sweet addiction. Because I can’t hover in between. An armstretch space between two worlds is too little space for me. Like everybody else, I’ll need to pick a side, but I really need your help. To pick reality and pain. A life away from you. To die. Help me! Die…
Of The First Reason
Ain’t it funny how writing is the last resort you turn to when you’re so ashamed of yourself you don’t even wish to speak? When you’ve got so much, yet there’s so much missing, that you just wanna say it, to someone, to someone you don’t know, you’re just wishing for a stranger in the night to find you, to tell you their story, to tell you about yourself.
Remember, remember, remember the reason, your Reason, remember your Love, remember what pulled you back up, when you were more broken than you could ever be again, because it was the first time? The scars from first wounds never quite heal, do they? They leave a mark, forever, something’s broken, and no matter how well it heals, the scar is there. Remember! Not the scars, ‘cuz they are there to remind you anyway, remember the Reason you found back then, remember the promise how you will never betray it? The feeling is like you owe to it your life. The Reason that saved you, your greatest Love, your greatest Pain.
They teach you all life long that you should learn to let go of the past, yet you owe your life to the past. You literally owe your life to that first Reason, that first Love. And you start repaying your debt. And you sacrifice all fleeting clumsy moments of truth or devotion, of ecstasy and passion, of love…
“You have to move on, for him! Look, you wanna race with the champs, you gotta be right up there, running their speed!” When you’ve got nothing else left, that’s what you do – you pick someone and label him a reason! And invest your love, your plans, you lie to yourself that it’s all gonna work out, and it may, eventually if you’re lucky… How can you be my reason, I don’t even love you! I don’t even know you! You think time’s enough? To mend a broken life, to pretend you’re starting a new one… You think… time never heals, my darling-dear! It never lets you forget, either! Or maybe it lets you. It never let me forget. The First Reason. The First Love. “O, know sweet love I always write of you, | And you and love are still my argument.”
So, where are you, my stranger, my bright flickering screen, take my words, listen to my pointless ramble, yet another night, take me in your cold embrace, dear darkness?! Ain’t it funny how writing is the last resort you turn to when there’s no one else who’s ever felt remotely close to you… And who ever can understand/feel/love you if they haven’t, if they know not what resides inside you, and if the only one who ever knew is dead… gone from this world, your reality!
“I can take a masquerade and show you that I don’t need to cry…
…so many times you make me cry, but I got no reason to deny
Because I’m here and still alive!”
Because only Time is capable of understanding how valuable Love is
Here’s a fable that isn’t written by me. But I kind of wish it was:
“Once upon a time, there was an island where all the feelings lived: Happiness, Sadness, Knowledge, and all of the others, including Love. One day it was announced to the feelings that the island would sink, so all constructed boats and left. Except for Love.
Love was the only one who stayed. Love wanted to hold out until the last possible moment. When the island had almost sunk, Love decided to ask for help.
Richness was passing by Love in a grand boat. Love said, Richness, can you take me with you?”
Richness answered, “No, I can’t. There is a lot of gold and silver in my boat. There is no place here for you.”
Love decided to ask Vanity who was also passing by in a beautiful vessel. “Vanity, please help me!” “I can’t help you, Love. You are all wet and might damage my boat,” Vanity answered.
Sadness was close by so Love asked, “Sadness, let me go with you.”
“Oh . . . Love, I am so sad that I need to be by myself!”
Happiness passed by Love, too, but she was so happy that she did not even hear when Love called her.
Suddenly, there was a voice, “Come, Love, I will take you.” It was an elder. So blessed and overjoyed, Love even forgot to ask the elder where they were going. When they arrived at dry land, the elder went her own way. Realizing how much was owed the elder,
Love asked Knowledge, another elder, “Who helped me?” It was Time,” Knowledge answered. “Time?” asked Love. “But why did Time help me?” Knowledge smiled with deep wisdom and answered, “Because only Time is capable of understanding how valuable Love is.”
And how do you measure forgiveness?
“The depth of love is measured with the ruler of forgiveness” is what I randomly read today in one of them books of inspirational thoughts. There is certain amount of truth in it, when you come to think of it. In theory, at least. Love’s forgiving of all and every fault and mistake. Some dare call it ‘blind,’ but I’d rather stay away from such untruthful extremes, for love is all but blind. Yet, they say it is forgiving, maybe partly because of that feeling of ‘I-don’t-hate-you-no-matter-what-happens’ that’s left after all’s been said and done. Or, is it?
The truth is, it’s easy to say the words, but what does it truly mean to forgive somebody? It’s not hate, it’s never been hate, but the pain remains. The pain has been there all along, and you do things, you go your way, and so does the other person, and from the start you hurt, but in the beginning it’s that sweet pain, that tingly feeling in your stomach that makes you melt in heavenly pleasure by the thought of a certain being. At the end it’s the same sort of pain, a little bitter, though, in stead of sweet, but it’s the same – in magnitude, just proportional to what you once called “love.” It’s just a shade. Hate, and love, and pain, and all the nuances inbetween – it’s the same damn feeling that burns you inside out.
Then how do you measure forgiveness? If nothing changes, ever, the feeling there, constantly, the same in essence, sometimes even in appearance, what happens when you truly forgive someone? Forgive for what? Whatever we experience is our own doing anyway; who do we need ask for forgiveness then but ourselves?…
“Dear Me, forgive me for daring to love and hurting so much from it…”
“You’re forgiven”
“Thank you, dear Me, but you know, I keep hurting, will you forgive me for that?”
“Of course, since you ask so politely. Forgiveness doesn’t necessarily invoke change of the situation.”
“But what of the emotional state – is that not supposed to change a tiny bit at least?”
And then there’s silence. I know I forgave myself for hurting now, but will I for the future? Or every single moment of existence requires the question repeated anew, until a goddamn speck of change in emotion clouds the clear cold ocean of pain? Of love?
Alas, change in emotion comes only when you forget. Remember Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind? Erase your memories, emotions with them, and it’s all gone. Nothing to remember, nothing to forgive. Does forgiveness come when you forget? It seems to be one way. The only way.
And what if you are cursed with the gift to never forget the smallest gesture, or word, or date, or place, or fragrance; what if closing your eyes takes you places, back in past times, in futures, in ‘nows’ and ‘thens’ that never happened; what if the smell of rain-wet pine cones and the thunderous rambling of a waterfall make you involuntarily call a name long gone from your life, gone from that place, a name that has forgotten yours? How do you measure forgiveness then, when you CANNOT forget?…
“I just came to say goodbye, Love…”
I saw love. Leave… At that green-carpeted airport – I just came to say, goodbye… Farewell, my Love. Yet, I am luckier than most people I’ve known. Because I loved, and was loved, truly, simply, out-worldly, out-timely, in a glimpse of eternity, before we had to remember that our bodies and (occasionally) our spirits belonged to this world. Before we had to wrap ourselves in lies and pride and forget who we truly are and what we truly want. Before we had to die…
Hush, be not saddened by our fate, young lovers! For love that is too pure is not meant for this world – it kills and dies, and bursts in flames, and like a phoenix is reborn in outer worlds. And I would sacrifice a myriad of lives to experience this moment of eternity one more time, and I would die a thousand deaths, and I would burn in thousand hells to relive this one eternal glimpse. For many a thing is worse than death, my little ones, so be not afraid to take a chance your mortal being will regret for all of your remaining days on Earth.
Yes, I regret – I regret not that I loved, but only when I didn’t, when I stopped myself where I shouldn’t have. For I know not, here, now what is more to give, to be, when one has sacrificed oneself, her soul, her spirit, mind and body, not sure of past or present, or even of the future, living shadow of her former self, with nothing to believe, no one to trust, and nothing sacred in this world. Thou shalt forgive me, mortal creatures, I am a vampire: I will suck your blood dry, and where not enough, I’ll keep you arrested in a frame. A picture. Do you still dare? Be forewarned!
We didn’t mean it that way, who ever did? I was a living flower, once, so long ago; I adored sunshine, fresh air and sweet candy. I’d make up merry stories with my friends, about bright kingdoms long forgotten and I’d believe in every happy ending. Young and innocent, driven by pure faith, in me, in you, in all the world, in human beings, in love with life, with me, with you, simply in love – bathing in it, drinking it, living it, spreading it…
Lost much on the way, but it wasn’t until that day at the green-carpeted airport that I fully realized: “I just came to say, goodbye Love…” You never kissed me goodbye. But that’s just how you leave – silently, without a word, without a kiss, without a spark in the eye, just like life, just like an airplane…
*
Hello, Love! Friend! Will you be my friend? Will you let me use your shoulder? Your heart? Will you let me kill you? Will you let me love you? Will you die? Will you let me die? It’s too soon, we just met, yet…
How do you imagine
“And how do you imagine this, living together with him thing, a person so like you?”
“And how do you imagine us, living, apart? In your universe, maybe… in his, we are where we are. My universe is different! And I slowly keep erasing every speck of dust from it, until it turns into a… Nothing…”
Dialogue
– Here, go play, little child! Why are you sad? What all the sad songs for, why the tears, why the sorrow in your silent cry?
What have you seen that we have not that kills your hope?
Be happy, be smiling, greet the world with the tenderness of your look! You have yet to live, to suffer, to cry in anger, and to turn away, to roam fields undiscovered!
– Where you have been, I come from, stranger. But where am I going from here? I lost the path, this is. My way led to a world unknown, and ever more unreal. It’s the tears of a sad, sad farewell, and a happy, happy hello! It’s just a shell you see; the sorrow inside you can’t. The shell too bound to let go, the one everyone is so used to seeing; that one you don’t want to see beyond. This is the sadness of my eyes – it masks the prison bars that hold a spirit freer than your eyes can see. You call me child, yet do you think you’ve seen more than me, old man? Have you known the healing touch of summer rain or were you too scared hiding under your umbrella? Ever listened to that lark telling tales of ancient times underneath your window every morning? Or did you fall asleep too late this morning?
24/08/2006
Goners
Is that when it’s really over now? Strange, I felt like it was over even before it started. Clash of civilizations… it never brought anything else but destruction. You are a realist, aren’t you? A hard core realist, one that’s so convinced in the smallness and harshness of his own damn real world that you’re blind to the real vastness of the world and all the opportunities it offers.
And I, the fool, strangely enough, thought there was a bit of soul in you… Or maybe I was right – there was a bit of soul. There was in all of us, once…
What could have happened? That is my struggle now, and for eternity – what happens? What happens to us all? What does it take to lose your soul? Am I still fighting for a long-lost cause? How do you give faith to someone who doesn’t want to believe? Are we all lost?… If all the unicorns are gone, what are we doing here?…
13/04/2006
We’re part of the story
“We’re part of the story, part of the tale, sometimes beautiful, sometimes insane…”
It’s all about the story, Paul! It’s all about the experiences, the feelings. It’s not about who’s better and who’s worse, it’s not about ratings, it’s not even about money or prestige. It’s about the experiences. It’s about the lives we change and the ones that change us. Seeing is more than believing, seeing is feeling. One thing science classes are right about – lab is the most important part of learning. Though hard to admit for a passionate theorist like me, it wasn’t until I started going through the lab of life that I realized it.
And who can tell me what’s better or worse for me, to try this or slow down? I’m taking all the risks. It’s now. It’s what I want. So one day there will be no I’m-sorrys or I-could-haves. Cause I know it’s my way that way. And I despise the ones who left their way in pursuit of what someone else told them to be better. What is better than freedom? What is better than learning life anew each day? What is better than remembering who you really are? What is better than living?
14/10/2005
In Joy And Pain
In joy and pain… Why aren’t you here now, my Friend? Why am I not? Can you share my joy, or whenever I hurt just as much? As much as when you were next to me?… Remember the nights? Remember when we used to talk, share dreams under the velvet softness of the moon, and Mars?… ‘How come, you care about Mars?’…
Leaves are falling, a reflection of a golden sunset blinds me from the water surface… And round, and round, and round… Time to go! Till next time! See you soon! To wipe my tears again, bring a smile to my face, just like no one could before, or after… Sing me a song, of your beauty, of your kingdom, as Nightwish whisper. Beautiful kingdoms I’ve seen now – many places under the sun, but there is no beauty with no one to share it. There is nothing but a fake smile, there is no feeling… there is no ‘I belong’.
Away, away in time… too far away from home. And each step leading farther… There is no Home, without a Friend, without a trustful heart, there is no home without people to forgive your weakness and mistakes, to have the patience to teach you what you desire most! To give as much as you can never repay! How can I express my gratitude in meaningless words? How can I say I thank you, when all I owe you cannot be expressed? How can a creature just as wrong as I ever say it right…
Forgive me! Forgive me for not being there! For missing time and place, for laughing when I should have cried, for crying when I should have laughed! Forgive me for tearing not one, but two worlds apart, forgive me for being senseless to what I should have felt!… Forgive, but please, do not forget!
24/01/2005
What I fear
What do I fear?… The end! The End of The Story! Of any good story! The thought that it’s over! The beauty and the memories it kept for me – it’s all over! You put the CD in the box and never think of it again… Or is only when: “Hi, my name is [.]. Oh, btw, have you seen this cool movie [.]? It’s amazing, you totally have to see it!”
This is the worst thing about stories – they’re eventually over! But you have to move on! Keep up the fight! Find another, if necessary, but never say die! Never dare say die! Shed a tear, here or there, and soon you will forget! You swore you never will, but time’s stronger than your promises! Time’s stronger than stories! Time’s always stronger… And it does eventually win! Be it for the greatness of the short happy moments, be it for the wisdom of age, be it for the sense of infinity… Until it Ends!… That’s right John, until time ends… Then we’ll all be at peace!
But as long as time goes, there will always be war, and we’ll always be soldiers, losing battles and creating stories! Or winning battles and losing stories! But here they were wrong – you will ALWAYS be alone! Doesn’t it feel incredible? Great? Or incredibly… sad!
Yes, my wise philosophers of the German classics – matter more hateful than I could bear to read! We are ALWAYS alone! Maybe not lonely for a time or two, but alone – for as long as time. For there are no two identical human beings in this world or any! For there are no two identical pieces of matter on the face of this earth or any! For there are no souls identical to each other! For not even God counts Himself as three identical Characters (or He would combine them), but three parts of the same Being! And if we accept that there could be somebody at least similar to each of us, then there are these people who will never meet or be together for their being similar.
10/11/2004
Journals? Nah. I’ve got my email.
When I was a kid, I used to keep a journal. You know, from the kind in which you report what you had for breakfast and how many times you spotted the cute guy sitting 2 tables down the row in your class. I stopped this nonsense around the time I got my first serious boyfriend. I mean, who needs a journal when you can talk to a real person, and better yet – you might learn a thing or two from trying to listen? That’s the problem with the blanc page most of the time – you can’t learn anything from it. And I discovered around that time I was this selfish lazy egoist who needed to get something back for what she does. Well, if I’ve put the effort of throwing things out in the open, dressing sensations into words, hey, I needed to get something back. I needed a lesson. A reason. (“… got to get back to a reason…” – TSO keep singing in my head). Yeah, all kinds of reason(s). Както причина, така и… другото.
Then I found myself alone again, and there used to come this sporadic desire to start writing journal entries again. I even tried with a couple of somewhat successful travel journals, one describing a trip to Sweden, the other – my first ‘on-my-own’ trip to Vancouver, CA(nada). But sooner or later there just wasn’t enough time left for taking a look around and recording real life. But hey, I discovered that I only need to open my email, or get on skype and…
Well, not that I felt any less alone, but maybe a little tiny bit less lonely. Who knows. At any rate, I ended up not having enough time to think that much about it. Only to feel it – the loneliness. Hence I became less than patient with words, and if there’s something I can pass without replying to — hell, I will. Come on, people, feel it! How are we gonna develop our super-powers like telepathy and empathy and God-knows-what-athy if we keep relying on these alienating conglomerations of letters. And they all look the same, on top of it! Yeah, I’m not sure I believe it quite yet. That’s why I keep replying to emails, and spend endless hours on skype.
So, yeah, if you wanna reach me – you know I’m online. Even if I’m not. So, drop me an email. Unless you really feel me. Then please, call. I wanna hear your voice. I might even tell you a thing or two.
What You Ask For And What You Get
“Just how much pain do you think you can take, little one? Look at you, all skinny to the bone! You think you’re stronger than us? Don’t you understand, your rebellion is useless! Give us what we want! We need it, and you need to let it out.”
“Just shut up. And give me another nail. I’ll do it myself.”
One of them doctors, in their black gowns, like the ones they give you in university, when you have finished your studies and learned a lot, stepped out and slowly inserted a tiny needle into her upper left chest. They probably went to university as well. They probably knew. They had all this advanced technology that they brought to her planet. How could they not know?
As soon as the needle penetrated the skin, it thickened to the size of a nail and thousands of small hair-thick metal needles shot right through; one could see them sizzling and burning whatever was under that skin, scorching the outward layer. It got red and blistery. Brownish and bluish spots marked older drills.
It looked out through the window bars. The “doctor” started preparing another needle, but It stopped him.
“Oh no, no. We don’t want her dead, we need to torture her in well-balanced doses.” Pause. “You know, you and I, we’re not that much different, little one. Look at your history. Your race has done terrible things to survive. Look at your politics – your chieftains keep sending your own to fight against each other. You keep destroying plant and animal species that have peacefully coexisted for years before human hand touched them. Why? Because you needed them to survive. You needed their space, you needed their energy. You needed them for food, for medicine, for amusement. You needed them to reassure your superiority, and to guarantee your existence.”
It paused. Then turned its big crystal-clear eyes to her. Just to meet her soft and loving gaze.
“We’re not that different, little one. But we are superior. We only need that one thing from you. It’s been so easy for your species; it’s what destroyed your planet. Release it! Why are you so stubborn? Give it to us!”
“Never! – she screamed out. A sparkle of rage in her fading voice. “Never, you, monsters! You will never have my Hatred! Because… I Love… You! Till death parts me from you. I Love!”
She gasped for one final breath.
13.11.2007
AllyVRK's Reflections 