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Let's start from the beginning.
Except for the fact that I have no idea where it would be. Not because there was no beginning but because there were so many that Iíve already got lost. If cats have nine lives I feel like I had ninety of them, all interrupted in the middle. You see, the difference between cats and me is that cats don't get confused after switching from one existence to another. I did.
So let's start from the end. Or the middle. Let's start from any point without giving specific data regarding time and place, shall we?
T. S. Eliot said
the journey, not the arrival, matters.
I might be bold or simply stupid but I won't agree. Itís not always about the journey. Sometimes you find it too long and tiresome, exhausting the entire expanse of your mind.
Sometimes itís about those moments when after walking thousands miles you see the place where you belong, as you have learnt it by heart,
en tus sueŮos
. About those moments which last seconds and you feel youíve been waiting for them all your life. Sometimes itís about arrivals.
And I had them all, at Costa del Sol.
People ask me how I deal with your absence and I smile, coming up with different versions of the same lie. Then words of admire follow as I seem to be pretty tough to cope with your not being here so well. But itís not an extraordinary bravery that grows in my heart, just a regular fear. Iím scared how weíre drifting apart, our bodies unlearning each other, our hands slipping loose. You are not here anymore for me and all I have are short messages on my SIM card, an empty apartment on the seventh floor and evening solitude.
All my life Iíve been expected to aim high, play hard and prove the best. All I do now is constantly missing the bar.
Maybe itís not that Iím unable to jump as high as those ambitions reach or do not have the courage to achieve wild dreams. Just the plans Iím supposed to realize are not mine. And Iím tired of living up to someone else's expectations, tired of fulfilling aspirations that do not belong to me.
Maybe this time I just want to stop carrying, try to relax and stop feeling guilty.
Guilty that I am not perfect.
I wake up at 5 am with my throat clogged up and feel like screaming. And this is my psychological ease people are so terribly jealous of, due to the fact that Iím not contributing to GDP any longer. However, I might start considering the possibility where PhD I quitted my job for will chuck in me. I really enjoy the irony of everyday life, just came to the point where the reality has been overdosed.
It is not that I havenít seen the neon flashing in my brain saying
It is just that I have totally ignored it.
Six months later I know itís not the end of yesterday but the beginning of tomorrow. Still, thereís an incredibly irritating today, almost impossible to cope with, even in strongly altered states of mind. Iím stubbornly reluctant to kill it due to my faith that timeís a lever. Face in the mirror is fed with one command though.
There is only one day written in your palm and all you have to do is get through it with a minimal loss of life.
Despite the midnight resetting meter my new year looks as follows: daily breathsí synchronizing, semiconscious passing by.
Timeís passing by with a shocking swiftness. But this shade of blue is still written under my eyelids, while this scent of air stays imprinted into my mind. And I find myself in the port with the wind
with heavy earrings of mine.
If the price for relieving from being homesick is letting the mind play tricks on me, I shall pay it for once.
Because dreams have no paradise, they die and never come back. And I badly need these memories to last and to let me be
quietly and safely insane
for many night to come.
After putting back the clock you would find me on Malpensa Aiport holding a bottle of 15 year old Johnnie Walker and texting you
bad news, you have to pick me up
on July 1st.
But I guess God doesnít accept deals like this since trespasses are not to be erased but to be atoned for. And itís always to late to mend if you sin against love.
If another lives do happen after this one, darling, I promise to find you no matter where youíll be watching constellations of stars - and I swear not to lose you again.
Mit hjšrta bankar kun for deg.
When it gets really ugly Ė and I know it will, because I am still unable to become attached just for a while, trust only a little bit and love partly Ė when it gets really bad and the shield that protected me from dripping with blood every time I brushed against something starts disappearing slowly but inevitably, when anxiety brings mouth drying and breath halting, I will bend forward and burry face in my hands. Maybe then nobody will ever find out how terribly sorry I am.
404. Files Not Found.
Good side of our break-up is that my romantic vision of a perfect evening wonít be ruined by yours
wanna pizza, dude?
any more. And that Saturday night wonít necessarily involve getting drunk with your buddies while discussing Java or project management. Or next time I hear
I love you
it wonít be an introduction to but-not-as-much-as-I-used-to crap. Or I wonít feel sorry that going for a Sunday walk for some reasons is regarded as such a clichť by software analysts. And, above all, I wonít be afraid that if we spend together next fifty years, you will die first.
she said youíd wake up when you were 30 and realize that all the things that had held a real value in your life were missing and you have nothing but a urban solitude.
she was wrong. you wonít.
not if thereís someone who fills your life with their breaths so that you could keep on materializing all your hopes, keep on dreaming. it wonít be me though. because one night we woke up and you decided that the fairy tale was over.
and among all things I could deal with there was no room for requiem for a dream.
If it wasnít for antibiotics I am taking, Iíd probably get wasted every day, so I guess health problems occurred just in time. Unfortunately, sunbathing ban came along with that and due to the possibility of photoallergic or phototoxic reactions I wonít be exactly glowing beach babe on board of 737.
Maybe I missed my chance, maybe the deal was a one-off. But I dare to take the risk and to find out if I have any luck. Because once youíve staked everything on one roll of the dice, there is nothing to be afraid of.
Not if youíve lost.
I never craved for marriage, kids, shared bank loan taken up for 30 years and Iím not positive if Iíll ever be ready for this. You see, my understanding of stabilization unfortunately doesinclude routine.
I didnít long for big things, either. I wanted small ones, like sharing mornings, afternoon walks, preparing pancakes under the same roof, ordinary being together. Without any proves of belonging, legal certificates and long-termed financial plans.
I yearned for better timing for us. For present simple and continue. For giving up all conditionals.
I guess it was too much for our love grammar to bear.
This is a high-context communication. You can copy the wordsí sequence but you wonít get the message. If the language that is not based on words was spoken here, my skinís temperature would be carefully examined. Youíd try tasting my lips and check if the words coming through are dry and fragile. Youíd close my hands inside yours and listen into an inner trembling. The way I cross them on my chest does not prove security. But you wonít know this by looking at the words typed soundlessly on the screen. And that is all you can afford on, darling.
Donít ask who. Ask why.
Because this is my interpretation of reality.
Because capturing things the way I see them involves visual lying.
Because there are stories being told in my head, these ones which Iíd like to remember even if they did not take place.
Because there are moments which I would like to engrave in a deep layer of memory so that time couldnít dissolve a picture and fade colors away, moments when I wish a thousand-year sleep would find us.
Because this is my ways of recording half-remember dreams.
My way of breath holding and time halting.
Who are you this time?
I am my biggest threat and my worst nightmare.
I am a self-fulfilling prophecy that invariably brings nothing but a disaster.
I am fucking Lady Lazarus still taken aback by the miracle
I am the reason why all happy endings took place elsewhere
I am a defective commodity to which only you seemed to have a complete users' manual, however the last pages stated: when bored, throw away.
I am a loser in my private RPG.
I am a version of myself you cannot love.
I am a friendly hell.
I am your brainís hostage.
I wish it wasnít me who has to crash your illusions but I believe some serious communication failure occurred when our love making took place.
It turns out in our happily ended search we looked for quite different things in life.
You tried to find a
while I aimed at a
Not a related concepts really, probably due to expectations differences.(I wouldnít suspect you of evil intentions.)
And if you happen not to know that
is actually just an abbreviation, let me clear things up for you, dear.
It stands for
please come back to me please come back to me please come back to me please come back to me please come back to me please come back to me please come back to me please come back to me please come back to me please come back to me please come back to me please come back to me please come back to me please come back to me please come back to me please come back to me please come back to me please come back to me come back to me
so that I could get even
One day it will come to you with absolute clarity that you have lost and your heart will writhe in a swamp of loneliness. To all outward appearances everything will seem to be just fine and probably nobody will notice your shortcomings. Still, you will feel like yelling at the top of your lungs. But there will be nobody to hear you out. First bites of failure are painfully bitter, babe, but have no doubt, you will certainly get used to its taste. Just buckle your seatbelts and let your nightmares start spinning into existence.
Welcome to my world, darling.
Actually, I wonít be a graceful interlocutor this time. Iím not in a mood to exchange pleasantries and skipping out catty comments isnít regarded a soft option any more. Also, probably you wouldnít find my newly acquired maliciousness irresistible, trust me on this. I have a good insult radar plus serious insecurity overdrive. And I am fucking reluctant.
Reluctant to acknowledge that I still can be softened up by random act of kindness. Reluctant to declare that my united states of independence have just suffered tremendous defeat. Reluctant to admit you are not a matter of supreme indifference to me.
I find it amusing how you speak of time, using terms referring to money. You spend it, waste, apply methods of smart management. But make no mistake, the difference is vast. Something measured in seconds and years can only be used but cannot be replaced, won back or earned. Efforts of saving are doom to failure, too. Borrowing isnít an option, either. Once it is lost, it is lost forever. I believe thatís major concern of yours. The sad truth that even the most effective management equals zero control. Control over something that owns us, closing our lives in cycles.
Forgive me not asking how are you, but I don'ot give a fuck about your mood. I am not interested in changes that were brought recently to your life, either and your new successes are not a concern of mine any longer. The thing is that I care about people present in my life and your existence does not refer to that any more. And as far as the past is considered, my memory is growing dim. Hopefully next time we see each other you will notice a progress. Next time I see you, baby, I wonít remember your name.
Anna's just called and a delicious description regarding sitting on the terrace sipping red wine relaxing under warm Andalucian sun sounded so painfully familiar that I have no doubt Ė this evening an empty bottle of Spanish Rioja will land in my litter. As its super ripeness, hints of tar, fruit liqueur and smoky tones require exceptionally careful testing, probably I'll end up with being gently drunk but hey, I was dumped, lost my job and I'm about to fail at obtaining PhD, if there is something such a loser deserves, itís getting hammered at least once a week.
I donít believe in
. But do we really need an eternity? Isnít one life long enough? Think of it: 50 years lived through with a smile. Or: 50 months spent with a person you love. Or: 50 days of holiday and each of them youíll be seeing African coast's line while standing on a terrace somewhere in Nueva Andalucia. Or: 50 seconds of post orgasmic chill.
These are my eternities. My everlasting miracles. My favourite fairy tales which were not limited to one happy ending but stayed in my head at the loop.
I believe in
liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar
Another serious reality overdose. Choked by anger and nerves, I spent all day pacing around the apartment, avoiding getting down to work that already has been postponed several times. It was only running out of milk that forced me to brave the freezing cold outside. Gloomy weather was perfectly matching my mood. I couldnít help an impression that the whole world just set on dragging me down. Then I saw it. A school bus full of kids. Smiling. Waving. Not in a fuck gesture. I saw old-fashion regular waves Ė and the whole anger melted inside me like last yearís snow.
I know Ė disaster can often lead to a new victory.
I am aware Ė when everything is crumbling around oneís ears, itís hard to believe that things can get better but finally they will.
I bear in mind Ė what doesnít kill you only makes you stronger and I realize that tragic incidents create the freedom and space for a new great things to come.
I remember Ė failures give people wisdom to consider their choices wisely and make them pursue their dreams with passion and courage which can do wonders.
I know, I really do. And I couldnít care less.
wprasowuję te słowa w miejsce w dole krzyża. to nie jest reanimacja, bo wciąż oddychają. to jest przekładanie wspomnień. przesuwanie ich spod czaszki, skąd niekontrolowanie kiełkują, zbyt ciasno oplatając můzg. jest delikatne przenoszenie w kierunku kręgosłupa, tam gdzie mogą zakorzenić się, nie wyrządzając mi krzywdy. to jest dyslokacja emocji. zabezpieczanie receptorůw. chcę patrzeć na to wszystko z boku, jakby zdarzyło się zupełnie obcej osobie, a ja to po prostu utrwaliłam na dyskach i kliszach. odgrywać w trybie bezpieczeństwa. nie całując zeszłorocznych blizn.
a słowa, tak ciche, że wsiąkające w oddechy, zastygłe w krwiobiegu, kruszeją i nieregularnie wtapiają się w sny.
A fairy tale about the girl who had a soft spot for expensive shoes and glittering dresses. Who was tired of moving out endlessly and got sick with places which were only temporary. The girl who was done with her heart being always shattered and her home being changed all the time. Who needed things that are long lasting and people who will not leave.
A fairy tale which was the most real thing that happened in her life.
I knew it will not have a happy ending, just hoped that at least the middle part will bring more luck.
it hurts me, lu
and I smiled, saying nothing, hoping youíll lose any hope of eliciting a response soon. Because I didnít want you to cause bigger pain that Iíve already had - and because I did want you to suffer. I wanted you to feel that grief, disappointment, sorrow and rage that Iíve gone through when you threw me away like a used tissue the seventh day of summer. I wanted all those nightmares, which spun into existence inside my head, start materializing now for you.
Honestly, I hope itíll hurt like blue blazes.
Because mine did so.
The first thing you do is painting the flat. Suddenly you find yourself picking the perfect shade of happy yellow, saying goodbye to miserable white. Then, you change lightening, ordering a washmachine barrel which turns out to throw marvellous light pattern on the wall. You buy wicker baskets, even though you used to call them revoltingly rural and idyllic, perfectly suiting to Ikea-style home inhabited by a surprisingly functional family. Then you stow into a closet all those CDs with sad songs you would listen together and which covers has still his handwriting on them.
And then you start breathing.
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