how vain i should be to reread my own posts, but sometimes, late at night or early in the morning, i find myself scrolling through the past on the computer, mouthing the words or simply caressing them with my eyes. because within me there is something i have not yet understood. an undercurrent of a river lost in my old, unpracticed tongue.
rio de la plata maybe. or river of the sun.
even the sun has sunspots, darker on the background of virginal white; and so i have the blind spots: i always find them when i try. no light is enough to banish the spot of darkess on my sleeve: the drop of blood refusing to wash off in hot water. it would wash off in the cold, i know, but it’ll never get the chance.
chances are far and in between, don’t you know?
and i find myself every time, unexpected, like red peonies on a rose bush in may.
находжу себе кожен раз в шматку чорного хліба.
but what is there to find, other than the poems i had learnt by heart in years three and five. and seven. wordsworth’s daffodils.
the yellow vibrancy of life.
Posted in chapters of my life
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do you reckon we could make snow angels without snow? we could scrape ourselves against the ground, delirium of cold seeping through our pores. then, maybe then, our bodies would scrape away the frost from the pavement without drawing blood. maybe the ice will shatter somewhere inside of us. i’m cold tonight and nothing will warm me.
more than anything, i’d like for the sunset to come around again.
more violent this time, more primitive, innate; heat firing my synapses all at once with broken impulses. and i want it to smell of freshly brewed coffee in a little cafe on a little hidden street nobody knows but stumbles onto by chance. we must always roll the die of life. it’s in the eyes. always in the eyes.
yesterday i would have told you it never comes around, but silence came. and now i know true silence is that which lies in the inevitability of it being broken any moment now. suppose it’s like cutting a cake. don’t ask me why.
and when it comes around you can see it lurking like a shadow in the eyes. a vapid corner of pitch black dark. but we are burning embers in the shadows of the light.
come with me: it will be alright.
i have decided that i will be cold tonight.
but i will try to warm you up.
Posted in chapters of my life
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certain things hit me with a strange ferocity. different velocity, acceleration, speed, but they are have one thing in common -somehow they wound me gently, taking care not to hurt too much or break more bones than will heal naturally given time and care.
it’s often words. soft, sometimes inaudible, but always taboo.
like the wednesday past, when i met your past love and she told me of the things you and her did, the way your breathing would take on an animalistic quality, as if the lion i know in you was roused, the way your face would contort at the end of it all, the way it made her laugh.
and then there was the way she asked about what we have done. and i told her. why wouldn’t i? let the vulture take its prey and feast on it. we all need nourishment of some kind and i guess my nourishment was hearing it all out in the open. everything has it’s price and well, she’s only me in retrospect.
those little things are enough to drive us insane, but i think we ought to face them head-on. that way we are the hunters and not the hunted.
and then there was this morning and a text from you telling of your time in france and how, by chance, you ended up sleeping only meters away from your parents and their squeaky bed last night and the night before.
and i don’t want to fill in the gaps.
my parents wouldn’t.
but we are all different, non? my morals are not yours. my horror is different to yours. ukrainian normality does not always collide with the french, i know that. you laid there in silence, but me, i’d get up and go to the bathroom, garden, i’d go out.
and suppose that’s us in twenty or thirty years time. does it scare you? it scares the blinking daylights out of me.
but what do i know of fear?
maybe i ought to go to war.
so here’s my rebuttal: we do not see things as they are, we see things as we are.
Posted in chapters of my life
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