Tag Archives: creative writing

Am I a mad woman? Feverish, yet empty.

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The bittersweet taste of wine dries my already sore throat. You see… it is hurt from the dozens of cigarettes that I smoked today. And of course, there’s a nosebleed with the rest of the problem wagon, telling me to quit bad habits. I ended up pushing table napkins down the nostrils aggressively, almost with the strength of a mining man trying to escape being buried several feet underground in a shaft.

Yes, these bibs were used as if my life depended on it and I guess my anxiety is to be blamed here. It makes me slightly overreact. But somehow unpolished roughness of my actions suited this run-down pub. What do you think…? Even the person sitting next to me didn’t blink. You’d be surprised what you can see at this rat’s hangout. Speaking of which, the old man is chugging down a second in a row glass of Spiced Morgan’s with rocks to the top. The fellow must have it hard, yet every sip he takes eases the pain away or perhaps just relaxes his face muscles. Numbness feels nice, I understand.

I always see the weirdest bunch in here. I can even put a wager that the interior matches each of our moral compasses. And as you guessed it, this place looks like a horse’s shit. Even more, smells like one.

Just look at what we have at the left corner circle booth. Those two ladies asked for the cheapest Sauvignon Blanc on the menu. Nothing bad with that, we all barely have green in our pockets, but I say choose something real if you’re drinking at this place. Wine is clearly outdated, but it went unnoticed. Rob (manager/owner/bartender and chef) rarely enjoys an occasion of opening a new bottle and the last time I checked – only a single one has been opened for a couple of weeks now. Minus the pretentious hags, others just admit reality and live peacefully with their stench: drinking all sorts of nonsense without even taking the flies out.

This all-encompassing blob of a phase leaves me lurking, talking to you. But a couple of Tullamore’s and I will shut you up for today. Sorry, you are a bit annoying sometimes. I really just enjoy being numb to people, to the breath-taking and sometimes ugly surroundings and noises that are passing me by in the slowed and more often forwarded motion.

Is that guy next to me choking or coughing? How funny… No one even lifted their heads, except Robert, but he looks kind of pissed. I hope this guy is not planning to die here. I don’t know what the old guy could do to a dead person, but I believe he could come up with something. creative. Like a little haunt for the rest of his life on the other side?

Haha – Came out loudly.

But as I thought, not a single glance towards me.

I wonder if a lack of sensation is a twisted outcome of growing-up? Throw a kid or two in this place and we would get totally different reaction to the freak show.

Oh, what the hell… This nose of mine started bleeding again and now it feels like my chest is carrying a weight of a grown-up man. The one who goes to a gym every other day and lifts loads, chugs down protein shakes and rounds it up with a t-shirt free selfie.

Am I a mad woman? Feverish, yet empty. A collection of clashes. I stopped for a second whatever I was doing. To take a breath and light up another cigarette… To find myself almost throwing up. I was far overdoing my limits, overdosing my capacities. This empathy was somewhat pleasing and I guess that kind of saddened me for a second.

Oh, here it is. An emotion and it is usually followed up with a shutdown.

Yup

I guess I’m/you’re drowning. Please, just have a single breath left somewhere in you/me. I/you will need it to find my way back home. Before you/I go, check the face. Does our grin look at ease?

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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.

  Summer

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

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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

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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.

Saturday.

On the other side of the wall

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Yellow elephants and blue mouses were dancing together between colored balloons in a bit unusual tea party. I saw them from afar and got the urge to join this interestingly suspicious crowd. Just had to climb over the fence into their garden, paved with the green grass, marble dining sets and the most cyan swimming pool my eyes ever witnessed. It looked so surreal, perhaps even too much, as I could almost smell the plastic or somewhat pink, if possible, odor coming over from that side of the wall. Physics stopped there and left only the animal bourgeois dancing graciously in between the millions of balloons dawdling in motion. The lack of reality there didn’t scare me, I confirmed with myself as I watched my grey, colorless hands shake slightly. It didn’t scare me at all, I kept convincing those hands to grasp a little bit stronger as there were few meters of the climbing left to overcome. Not even a bit, I whispered it less assuring after seeing the grayness from my hands spread out onto the wall itself. I could see with the bare eye, the molecules diffusing with each other and spreading the black and white colored scheme as a virus and the fastest one at that. I didn’t let go, nor I freaked out, at the end I was the only one aware that the reality here is surely far from real.

I continue to climb. It took me long, as the more I climbed the longer it got, so at the end I am not even sure how long it took me as time and space is really messed up here and doesn’t work the way I am used for it to work. I only knew three things and those were that my body started to change, that the world turned grey and that the fence is far from over. Sometimes I would look back and only see myself swallowed by noir and nothing more and even regret wanting to join the carnival at the first place. Sometimes I would end up being scared about missing the party, but then the vague space-time continuum left some hope. And I would always think like that during the journey and once I stopped spacing out I realised that those grey hands of mine are not shaking anymore. And besides it, they turned old. God, how much time has passed?  I wasn’t sure. What was I chasing? What did I leave behind? Those were the questions I no longer knew how to answer. The irony hit me and I realised that somewhere in between the journey I was only missing the past or wanting to reach the future. I wanted it so much  that I forgot about my beautiful, beautiful grey colored palms that now had wrinkles and became weaker. I started to think that the color itself wasn’t that bad after all. And then it hit me, I just reached the top. I no longer cared but what I saw shocked me. The skinniest elephants and fattest mouses were lying on the floor, on the pavement, next to a drained, dirty, old swimming pool. As if it was a concrete desert, they were all dried up and lifeless even though they continued to breathe, to exist. The bourgeois status ceased untraceable, it vanished or more like there was none to begin with. Was I too late? What happened to the balloons, the colors, the tea and all the dancing I wanted to join? I started questioning, but got interrupted by a deep, low husky voice:

-Hey You! Aren’t you that classy neighbor with the bluest pond and the reddest flowers out there? What brings you here?

Finally a question I could answer came up, but the only thing that came out of my mouth was this spasmodic old man’s laugh.

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Seldom footprints that are washed by the ocean

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Seldom I think about the people that have been in my life and come to a realization that somehow I am not upset about those who are now gone. Does that make me a bad person? I keep asking myself.  For not to be able to maintain or value the connections and  presences that was once so dear… It is so easy to disappear, yet hard to stay close. However, truly, I am not even a tiny bit sad.

Well, as I was looking into the ocean I understood few things. Similarly, like the relationships by the flow of life, those footprints on the sand are washed away by the blue waters. But then I thought, it should not be a topic about about the footprints nor the sea. Look at the sand, it has the story on its own. What is not imprinted on the surface, still has contributed on the deeper contexts. If there was once a presence, it definitely affected the sands’ story in one way or another. The “footprints” are washed away not because they are forgotten, thy are still there, just deeper. In fact, footprints are washed away, because sometimes it makes easier for other people to walk in and leave a mark of their own.