Tag Archives: 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 Wine is clearly outdated, but it went unnoticed.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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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.

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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Bright in Brighton: crossing the ocean

Here we are, dressed in bright colours, fully prepared to take all of the Brighton in. We are the ones who like to feel. We go around. We smell the air, while becoming the people of very few words. Grasping and bathing in the horizon as the prisoners, just released. We are the sea kids. We absorb its molecules and its essence as naturally as an element of such can be. We fill the mammoth portions of ocean’s smell into our tiny lungs and promise to keep it, but unsuccessfully, as the concrete madness of the city, later reveals.

It breaks. But before that, we continue to walk. To get lost between the streets and voices of the new people we meet. Smiles that we exchanged got loose in the tiniest unknown corners. Music that we heard melted into the skins and then the beach…. Again. As if it would be the last time we meet, we continue to stare. Reducing the blinks of an eye and with a rapid heartbeat our hearts are whispering goodbyes, while our lips state the defeat.

One day, we will cross the ocean.

Insomnia: thoughts of the night

I am two. I open my eyes in the middle of the night . A command, as if fallen from the skies, tells mes to wake up , taking me away from the deepest dreams. The room, embraced by the darkness, is fading, but the subconscious mind still does not cease to share bright, just incurred images. The details of the dream are almost tangible , and while the plot, no matter how absurd is, now looks quite convincing. To the extent that is even difficult to define the boundaries between what is real and what is stolen from the kingdom of those who are still asleep . My dear creations of imagination, if I could learn how to tame them,

I could become a God of my world.