Wet lashes, bronze feet: oh we surrender to the heat

The built up tension and your hand brushing my hip, gliding down the spine and resting on the arched back.

It is warm, so warm that we are bound to fall for each other, all of us, 20-someones. Even if it’s for a short time, even if it is for the swimming season. For those three months, we are more attracted, more thirsty. We enjoy this heat.

Climb up, jump around, lay on top of each other, breathing deeply and drinking coke with ice. Extra ice with shaved ice cream.

Your blue eyes and washed off cream in the background of the sea. Sand in between wet hair stripes, toe nails playing with the heart strings.

Full moon, half moon, night.

High eyes. Sleepy eyes. Ecstatic flight.

Bronze skin and wet eyelashes.

I catch your eyes catching mine.

I would like to keep you,

for some time.



The rest of the time I am pretty normal.


If you’d ever ask me what is a writer’s block (which you’d never would care to) I would describe it as following:

I doubt all the letters that my fingers type, my thoughts seem clogged and it feels that there’s no way back to the previous madness, which I poked every now and then to test a quite filled cup of patience; pouring in a form of letters, words, sentences and very often materialising into nonsenses.


I believe that now I will be taking out my metaphor card: my thoughts are like a dried polluted river. Not that this ‘river’ of mine was ever clear, but I adored it’s flowing juxtaposition:  alive stream of dirt and all things dead. Perhaps a strong allegory, but on the edge of fighting this craving of madness – I am lost of words. Now all dirt stopped moving. Doesn’t that make my so called river into a puddle? Mud is for pigs. But on the bright side, pigs can be cute. I am cute.


So I started searching for something to spark the madness and make that water moving already. I began with going through the old stuff that I wrote ‘back in the days’ and for my surprise I stumbled upon scribbled words on my e-diary (I was real gay, but hey wordpress is kind of the same thing, right?… ) that I had when I was 13-15 years old. Now that I remember I think I had quite a few diaries while growing up. Nothing was happening in my life though. I mean times were different for a 10 year old girl born in a small country that just escaped Soviet’s regime. –On this note: Putin, please, just cut the nuclear bomb crap.– I had nothing and therefore none to write about. Also I had yet to develop this thing called critical thinking.

I remember, I would stare out of the window, exploring the scenery (was always a little too dreamy) for a period of 3 hours in a car journey with my dad and I would just write down what I saw. It usually ended up being a horse or empty fields and that’s, if you’d ask me now, is a really sad way of wasting paper.

In the gayiary, I would describe the horse’s colour or end up naming him. This was basically how I got into writing. It was like an innocent crap, but I got hooked. It was my escape from pretty grey days. No food, no money and barely seeing my hard-working parents left me with bare fantasies.


Boo Hoo. Right? Thankfully all the diaries had been torn apart and thrown away. This way at least I don’t have to go through papers of embarrassment, full of horses’ colours, names or other bullshit. Also, for some reason I was obsessive over particular names and I am pretty sure I had at least 20 of beautiful Holsteiner’s named Emily in that lockable notebook. And why they had to be locked anyways? What secrets does a 10 years old have?

Anyhow I did manage to find what I wrote in my teenage years. I can’t stop giggling… I kind of haven’t grew out of that mentality, I reckon. And maybe that’s why I don’t get my whiskey at the bar sometimes too (either that or my baby face). I was writing about some dark stuff and how I was an empty shell. Not a suicidal or wrist-cutting scenario, more likely I just discovered a state of numbness.


Writing was my way of self-analysing back then and I guess, is still now. The weird part is that my life was pretty smooth. I had a lot of good things; family, in my teens we were well off too, friends and some sort of love life, yet I was restless. Was that greed or weird self-obsession? I haven’t figured. Perhaps both too. Anyhow from magic-realism stories to more poetic ventures – I was on it. I had so much to say. And as I grew I had more things to add. I think that growing up kind of opens your mind but the key to unlocking that door doesn’t come for free, unfortunately. In fact, it’s quite expensive, obviously in a very abstract way.

It costs you belief, for instance. Belief that If you like something you should pursue it.

Belief that what you do might reach and inspire somebody out there.

You start doubting yourself and your capabilities and end up disguising it as a logical ‘calculation’ or rationality. And if you’d ask me rational thinking is way overrated.

Competition is big out there and there are million reasons why everyone else is better than you. Why even bother then?

Get a 9-5pm job.

Think real.

Earn money.

Get wasted.

And probably see a psychiatrist already.

Stop writing nonsenses about rivers, keys, horses and beliefs. It’s gay.

You’re gay.

I mean, I’m gay.

Am I mad?

And thus, pigs had nowhere to bath anymore.

There was only a pile of trash moving down the stream called the web.


Unity Storms


In the face of terror, unity emerges.

Driving Cadillacs in Our Dreams

In this empty, Bob Dylan’s music-filled room, the sound of doors being knocked drowns… My sharp ear manages to filtrate the irregular tact that interrupted swinging tune. Senses, now alerted, give me an ecstatic goosebumps, yet I decide to wait for the next characteristic course of action to take its place.

Humans and their patterns are easy to predict:

After a short pause interval, the sound of doors being knocked appeared for a second round. Stronger. Louder. More aggressively… Like a prostitute provoking her’s or his (no discrimination) correspondent to react.

I grin as I still manage to read the ifs and buts of the typical behaviour ahead of time. But who couldn’t? We are one way or another the children of society where habits are expected and normal almost as inherited vice. I wonder If the person behind those doors wouldn’t knock twice with much more ‘passion’ would I consider him or her abnormal?

I slowly get up from the ground and before I reach for the handle I pause.

A nerve-wracking wait for, currently, a stranger behind the wall.

Another knock materialises.

And before finally opening the old wooden doors I smile victoriously.

Acts of philanthropy only flushes my pride along the driveshaft. So I just continue to drive  Cadillacs, even if it’s only in secret.

Dancing with the devil: I am too all sorts of twisted


I just had one thing in my head: Tame you, then blame you; take you in, so that later I could cut you out.

I always got you dancing with the devil.

I think, that it all happened just because I actually never really wanted to grasp anyone this much. Or was it more that I purely wanted to see you crushed?

I wonder why you kept coming back, like I was your dome; yet you knew all along that I was nothing more than a shape of what was once called home. And I feel that before, I wasn’t like this… No. Did you ever think, that maybe, just maybe you were the one that made me switch?

So which one of us is more screwed? I could never decide it… Ironically, you’re still the best dancer I ever knew.

The last thing you said is that you enjoyed dancing with me too.

Blobs and thought fogs

I wonder If I will ever get up from the floor.

Laying down on the old carpet that I firmly refuse to hoover. Among the little food traces and thousands of lost hair strings, I feel comfortable. A weird company, perhaps…

Everything here is timeless for a brief second. Getting yourself lost in the moment is charming, although the wonderful ‘episode of loosing oneself’ is bound to be depicted differently and most certainly dependent on depictor.

I wonder why no one writes books about this brief excellence or maybe even involves it in a crappy 120 min lenght script of a B-rated movie? Has a  simple and plain scene became hard to afford in the times when one needs to stand out desperately? Ridiculous, but  somehow in our minds, an idea was planted that it all seems more magical if you have a handsome guy/girl next to you, or for a different genre –  some cigarettes and depressive thoughts. Props became a necessity. A decoration, to accessorize boring things.

Fuck it.

My little moments are by myself.  Not involved into anyone or anything. And during those I am glad to be keeping up with the tradition.

Thoughtless staring at the ceiling… It later progress into the blob of thoughts. Uncontrollable, non tamable and like the wind. The one when you are sitting outside during the lunch break and trying to eat your salad with a vegan spin off: really naughty and annoying, but still doesn’t make you maneuver for the indoor seating.

You enjoy outside. You enjoy the wind.

The windy thoughts on a trashy floor.


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