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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.

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Confessional: the chase

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The first time I saw Maya was in the rundown Camel pub, close to the sugar loaf walk passage. It was one of those weird sights and I surely don’t know why I stopped chugging my Brandi and looked her way.The girl wasn’t anything in looks, yet somehow appeared charming with the way she was carrying herself. Even if I make this sound as a breath-stopper, really there was nothing exceptional in the scene. Her tied-up brown, greasy hair and drab pants combined with the hoodie, of course, non-lighten roll-up in her mouth and head facing down, left me perplexed up until the moment she approached Adam for a lighter. She didn’t even look at me properly, simply said a hurried thanks and gave a short glance. Nothing happened, but it left me staring her way. I was smoking at that time. Vanishing second in a row Marlboro red, when Adam has never even taken up the habit. Her approaching him instead of myself, made me question. It made me think about trivial subjects as whether that was an issue of confidence or something else,  as arrogant is to admit, I am more aesthetically pleasing than my friend.

That was it. The first meeting just left these queries which disappeared not long after another few glasses. Later on I found out that she never even remembered our first exchange of glances or even second, in fact. For a self-loving human like myself it was surely a stab in the gut; surprisingly it didn’t make her less charming, on the contrary, she became all the more.

Stop whining, start dissing: A modern twist to slavery

To whomever it may concern,

after disappearing for few or more weeks I am coming back with the full force, well… to admit, my force is more of a fluctuating type. Certainly, it doesn’t matter where the hell I have disappeared, but I hope that there is still someone who missed my regular beef or creative outbursts ( the big gay moment). Wow, talking about self-absorption, right?

So here I am, sitting in a brand new house (it’s more new on the abstract way), brand new area, just finished studies and have a massive, unpacked luggage of clothes and post-grad depression. The only thing that keeps me busy is hunting down the spiders (forgive, PETA) one by one from the nest they have made, probably, somewhere close to my bed. In a way I am responsible for a species population. If you’d ask me, that’s pretty ‘grande’.

Although I doubt, but does that sound similar to your experiences? My advice: fuck it.

Yes, FUCK IT! Big time.

Being part of the society, that now somewhat feels more of a rat’s trap to one’s mental stability than a structure, graduates are bound to reach the overheat from this decision-making bollocks. Being a 22 year old female, I have done a bunch of haphazard and unrelated bundle of internships and placements, which most of them haven’t even been paid. Kids, that’s called a modern twist to the slavery.

Experiencing the bitters from event planning, film-making to journalism and etc., didn’t help me to solve or find anything that a woman of my age is supposed to, within this dis-functional scheme. If what, it pushed me to add few things more to  the list ‘That’s the shit I don’t like’. You can call me names at this point, but I don’t think that switching industries with an imaginary remote is bad at all. We do it for the crappy TV shows, so why not create an allegory to the shitty, I mean psychologically shitty, life situations.

To quote T. Edison: ‘I have not failed. I’ve just found 10,000 ways that won’t work’.

Although I haven’t even reached the two-digit number of failures, I can put myself somewhere in-between his shoes. By the way, that’s a very strong statement from someone who has feet phobia. What I am trying to say, If you have no definite idea of what you would like to be, don’t try to squeeze the juice out of the dried orange (mad metaphor skills). Just pick something that sounds interesting. It kinda seems like a neglected suggestion, but It is a starting point. Edisonian approach ( trial and failure) can help you to maintain sanity and take the pressure off figuring it all out.

I mean, some of us are Edisons and some are Alessandro Voltas,Henry Woodwards or Mathew Evanses (devised incandescent lamps). Some start late and some early, but the early kickoff time does not necessarily mean a stronger finish.

Take your cup, preferably with some motivational or confidence-boosting quote, drink your coffee and stop depressing ( it is also a post for myself), because dissing bitch- that’s the shit I don’t like.

*Drops the microphone*

I continue to pray, Romeo

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Here it is, my British, nihilist naturmort, I thought when he opened the doors, but only spat the tedious:
-Hey.
He was silent. Then shortly after taking not the most pleasant bath in my eyes, he began to suck the rest of the content. I started to feel as poorly as his face mimic, which pretty much reflected the ‘eh ‘ rating. He appeared to just have jumped from the bubbly, marble one to a public, covered in mold. Cursed hippocrate, he is not that … OK, I confess this rotter was hollowed out by the God himself, while I, or rather my face, is in the fourth Dante’s hell ravine. Well, you just can imagine the impact I felt after realising the differences of our worlds.
He left me in the doorway and went towards the record player like a goddamn deer… I have never seen a creature more graceful than this one, right before my eyes. In the middle of the process he seemed to remember me and an invitation to come in followed:
– Busy while waiting for a miracle? – Murmured, without turning around.
-What are you, bloody Dorian Gray? – Jealousy has taken the form of words.

The guy turned around and showed  puzzled  ‘I found myself ambushed’ type of smile. It was better than the 1/8 of a sneezing orgasm. I swear at this time I was going under a criminal case  and although I sentenced my heart for a death penalty, the head started to hold forth about democracy and rights, – all the boring dung, which acted as an antibiotic to the electrified hormones.
– Will it be? – Interrupted the inner case to offer a drink.
I took quite some time to digest the information, but did not fail to seem undeterred:
– With the ice. Fill the glass up to the end. – I threw a challenge.

He turned back and showed a slightly different smile, initiating curiosity and again his actions forced me to compare bottle-opening with the Victoria’s Secret show. He kept his gazes on me, I did too. For a second, I forgot to breathe, blink, swallow the saliva and just watched him watching me, that I watch him. He did not stop staring even when the liquid hit one millimeter to the excess point, he just knew when to stop pouring. This man was frighteningly skillful.

– Lynx – he says with a slightly hoarse voice. Me, still being reflex-less creature, tried to understand what this mystical creature is doing on Earth.
– Leo – takes the prepared drink of mine and his own,  while maintaining the eye contact and now starts massing towards me.
– Wolf – says, while shoving liqueur, contained in a quite luxurious looking  glass, to my face.
– After all, missus asked for an introduction, right? – as if explained the strange string of words and clearly satisfied with his reply he went straight back to the window.

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At this point JK Rowling’s world of magic and invisibility cloak, started to slowly disappear and the poison ceased to take over my body. The hormones, gave into the Penal Colony and now only my brain was left on the minefield.

– And you? – His tone suggested the lack of interest in my existence.
– I am Beatrice, but friends call me Deila. – I showed one of the best, sneaky smiles I had in my compartment. Buddy, it takes two to Tango. (lynx, leo, wolf and Beatrice are the characters from Dante’s “Divine Comedy”)

The guy starts to chuckle and I join.

-You read?- He put his guards down.

-A little bit. Dante just happens to be a personal favorite.

– I am surprised that you followed my remarks, but I guess I knew  it will go that way when you dropped the character name from Oscar Wilde.

-In fact, before this  game of words, I was thinking about the poem and that’s why I seemed undeterred.

-Kevin. Call me Kevin. – Slightly nods his head. Enchanted by his manners I did the same. Then I cursed myself. This man is none other than coquette. Demon closeted in a perfect body. What is his height? It seems roughly about 1.80-1.90 meters, can not exactly handle it from the couch’s perspective. Medium length hair,  directed to the back that reminded me of 1984 New York  trends. Rather a solid build, and a two-day beard, frowning eyebrows and long eyelashes, so tuned into the French fantasies I usually have. Plump lip tip with clear lines … one of those with pointy ends that kidnaps gaze. He wears a black Armani suit and slightly unbuttoned shirt exposes the delicate collarbone …

He must be joking. Such people should be driven away from the society, they pose a threat to the maintenance of a healthy mind. Coo, am I in traps, coo did the poison actually worked, Romeo?

I continue to pray for my heart to remain under the bars.

Photo Diary: “Bewitched” a guide to Brighton

There’s just something about Bournemouth that excites me every time when I come around. Similarly as is visiting an old friend that greets you with a bottle of wine instead of tea in the early afternoon (the fun part is clearly that the “early afternoon” can actually  be called the late morning). And these type of friends, I would suggest, are the keepers. But hey, that’s my cup of tea, not necessarily should be yours.

So meet Bournemouth. It is about 2 and half an hour ride by a bus full of old people (no one likes them, supposedly), broken AC, which is pretty much the same as hell, except with reverse temperature + funny throat, and smell of the the summer’s favorite – sweat. Definitely not the definitions one would like to delegate for the start of, but gradually it got better when at the end  fresh ocean’s breeze sneaked into the wheels of torture and missus I shed a tear of joyfulness.

So let’s start with the first impressions that as a rule so many times really go the wrong way. And obviously as good kid I followed it:  at first, I kind of got the feeling ‘ok this one is a bit of a weirdo’ as various gentleman’s wiggle clubs together with ladies’ freakingly twin-ish sense of style (leather jackets n leggings, bitch) or the fact that no one really knows what’s going on in this small city, have offered. But it’s cool, I guess  am not the most normal person too, so I just went with it and actually ended up falling in love. Sadly, for the melodrama fans, it is a figurative type of love or as the T-shirt  on the most touristic market stool would quote “I ❤ BM” (I just made up the acronym). Anyhow, the sea at night, the stares of the people, the pier with flirty fisherman, the laid-back attitudes, skating culture, 50% of food on Mondays, the mountainy terrains, guys at the cool clothe shop who raise pigeons as a hobby, the open bus that takes you to the creepy island and much more got me to drop the nasty attitude for good.

The moment it all turned 360 degrees was perhaps at Swanage (a.k.a creepy island). We were sitting in front of the ocean, watching the only few things that the scenery has offered :  boats, cliffs, waves, while surrealistic sounds coming from the game machines of the  ancient “Entertainment World” filled in the air . It had a calm (as if all inhabitants of the town were in rehabilitation period of some sort) but at the same time phantsmagoric feel to it, which lit the sparks. Not to forget, the cliff and the long walk in the forest with the finale of sitting at the prohibited edge and watching the ocean… Perhaps, it all doesn’t make sense, but the place was strange and maybe even clumsy analogously to a flawed person whose personality is helplessly charming. So yeah, unavoidably, I got bewitched.

Photo diary: thieves of the night. A guide to S. Sebastian

Endless walks in the night, laying next to the ocean at dawn and wonderfully cheap red wine. We are thieves of the night. Sneaking, climbing and rioting on the streets gently. The mankurts of normalities kicked us in our guts and away from their absurd kingdoms . But guess what… we like it that way. If stealing small fragments of the joyfulness is a crime, then please, punish us… All the way to the Penal Colony of our phantasmagorias.

 

 

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.