How come the stories written decades ago came to haunt us in real life? They used to be just that - stories, someone's reality interspersed with figments of imagination. They lured and frightened at the same time, shocked and disturbed. But being a mix of the reality and fiction it created a safe distance. There was never any serious danger to be completely immersed in its intricate web, not being able to break free.
It was fascinating and exhilarating to stand on the edge and look down at the abyss all the way knowing you will never fall.
When the world came suddenly crashing down one afternoon the mind was to busy processing the damage of an ongoing drama, questioning the survival itself.
The sequence of days and hours running on parallel lines, braking the framework of what used to be a familiar reality.
How could have they known what was about to happen years into the future? How was it possible to soak up all the pain to draw the picture that would make you shudder reminding of the nightmare too fresh to acknowledge completely, process in your mind in order to put it to rest and move on when it was still here to remind of all the atrocities that burned your eyes as soon as you shut them to get some sleep, all the pain that so close to the surface that any careless move could release it through million pores and drown you.
The gates are closed for now but just barely keeping inside its treacherous content.
How all these seemingly abstract ideas, places, people, events touch the wounds inside yet too fresh to heal? The power of sight, premonition or long-forgotten past that survives somewhere on the edge of the brain signaling not to forget something that once existed, had a meaning and vanished.
Opening doors on your way you might inadvertently stumble on something you never imagine in your wildest dreams you'd live through and survive to tell about, too close to home to be ever forgotten...
Preparing for winter is like slowing down before the final dive into a long dark tunnel.
Daytime is receding, northern wind is squeezing away the warmth of sunny hours, it's getting quieter.
Taking the last look at the surroundings, breathing in the fresh air, looking at the sky of incredibly deep blue, memorizing the scenery, quietly flipping the pages of passing days is all you can do.
One last step and unavoidable tunnel is swallowing all colors and sounds, it's getting darker and darker along the way. You are tempted to close your eyes and hold your breath in a desperate attempt to avoid feeling the bleakness of graying surroundings. All the energy is centered on moving in search for the light that must be somewhere ahead, who knows how long from now or even if. Darkness, wind and an illusive hope of another life cycle that is worth trying to overcome another day, week, month...
And when exhausted by the constant blindfolded motion with shades and sounds blurred into one while you are trying to pierce together the disintegrated fabric of time, a tiny flame will slowly materialize on the other side even if as a distant flicker, burning off match you will know you are getting closer.
It's not a dream, not a mirage, it's happening.
When a dreadful fatigue is seizing your limbs making it almost impossible to even move, memories nudge you to go on, luring you with promises of sun and warmth and color as vivid as you can only imagine.
One more step, and another, and few more, just to see it from afar, to know it's there, to be undeniably sure.
Venturing out for the first time like in a slow motion, blind from all the light and ambushed by all the sounds in the cool and crisp air and taking this first breath after seemingly endless night.
What a pleasure it is to sit on the curb and just breathe...
Writing spell unceremoniously drags you out of your cosy sleep. Things that are ready to see the light of day need you to give them a form to exist. The sounds translate into words and keep pouring through your fingertips until there's nothing left to say.
Its unyielding power is bigger than you or anything else, bossing you around until the purpose is achieved and you may go back to sleep feeling unconsciously relieved. Until the next powerful tag overwhelms you to write again.
Sometimes you need to look for it using all your powers of observation. At times it is unexpectedly striking and edgy, taking your breath away, almost painful to look at.
It's baffling and surprisingly disturbing, leaving long traces of contradicting emotions on its wake.
On other days it's simple, soft and mellow like an afternoon light on a shortest winter day reassuring you of spring coming eventually and giving you patience to trust and wait. Like pages from an old letter of a dear friend you haven't seen in years, cosy and comforting in its permanent presence.
One thing is certain - it's out there, obvious to the eye or hiding in shadows.
Looking for it is always a discovery of something new that escapes superficial glances.
The inner light it gives to all shapes and colors of all things that surround us. It's like finding something to warm your heart in the darkest of moments, something to hold on to, like a life preserver, cherish its delicacy and variability that doesn't seize to amaze.
Autumn is coming, despite the unending heat, still loud cicada's songs, deeply green leaves, short sleeves and wishes for cooler days.
It's a premonition, the feeling of the season aging slowly and inevitably like anyone or anything we know. And because it is time.
You know it when the sun starts looking at you from a slightly different angle. Shortening hours of the day and cooler nights, few dry golden leaves here and there, lying on the ground lightly scratching the surface of a street, adding another color to the whole composition. The pace is slowing down like a train coming to the final stop.
The slow motion of the change is comforting. No one is in a hurry to immerse in a new season. We all know what's behind it. It will be cold and long winter (or at least it'll seem longer than necessary, as it often does).
Soaking up the sun, hesitating to give up summer attire to more calendar-appropriate choices, avoiding the inevitable sadness of upcoming months, holding on to the fresh memories and not letting go...yet once again anticipating each step of yearly cycle as given without an argument or a wish of change.
There is an old saying: we cannot step into the same river twice.
It seems so true even for the places we are connected with in a million ways and moments.
You can live your life for years, get to know every little detail of the place, virtually every stone under your feet. And then you move away (even if not too far), make another place your home.
Unexpectedly thrown back you are suddenly lost, standing in the middle disoriented and confused. It looks familiar and yet so very distant and different.
Memories are still there to hold your hand and guide you back step by step like a child learning to walk but it's never the same.
It feels like it all happened in another lifetime. It's tucked away so deep that peeling off layers takes extra time and effort.
Remembering how it used to be. Confusion is a strange mix of deja vu and nostalgia, drawing you back and at the same time forcing to be cautious in this new old land where things has changed quite a bit when you weren't looking but subtle familiar glimpses still help navigate these waters.
It feels surreal how easily our present can disengage us from our past that reminds more and more of disassociated, scattered frames from an old movie. But it's still there as ever unchanged because it has already happened.
I miss the sound of a piano. Old and not finally tuned. The sound is coming from the close distance, in an empty half-dark room, the imperfection of a familiar melody. The feeling of music being right there in front of you, running though you, mesmerizing, enchanting, carrying away from what's called real, to stay in this corner of the world and dream, feel, remember, relive something bright, clear like a sky on the crisp winter morning when anything is still possible.
What do you do with the anger that eats at you?
When it doesn't burn out or go away completely, festering inside, poisoning your mind, breeding dark thoughts. There's no release from the rotting fumes surrounding every image, hiding the original, clouding the judgement, sipping through every pore and still managing to remain intact, surviving in deep corners of the soul to be raised at the provocation spreading wings ever stronger with every time it happens.
It twists the frame draining out any perspective, control, or self-possession holding you a hostage trapped in a double cage of inner and outer prisons combined where freedom seems so illusive
When razor-sharp, double-edged words honestly tear at the fabric of the reality how to protect yourself from inflicted hurt and still be able to speak out regardless of the fact of who and how many are willing to listen, agree, understand or not.
How to withstand the backlash of anger from those who find ideas challenging the imaginary safety of their world so threatening that they are ready to preserve it at all costs, defying the reality check and loosing sanity in the process by holding on to the notion of being secure just by strapping themselves to the illogically outdated and outright blind trust of the past experiences twisted in the deceptive light of nostalgia.
Those who don't dear to look at the Big picture for what it really is, untarnished by wishful thinking, existing despite all their hopes, fears, and denials will finally need to learn to face it, deal with it as it comes, in all of unexpected colors, and make it their own by being there to shape it up every single day
Silver grey sky is untouched by colors.
In the early hours of morning vaguely visible silhouettes are misleading.
Quiet is consuming the surroundings immersing them in a surrealistic flow of sounds and smells that'll all seize to exist with the first rays of sun obligingly vanishing into the air.
Holding on to a delicate whisper murmuring in your ear you wish for the time to slow and let you breathe not burdened with anticipation or hope.
It's a dream that only lives for a moment balancing on the edge of the night, twisting the frame into unfamiliar shapes readying itself for another day.
Life is a labyrinth, elaborate maze of turns and dead ends, a web of circling rings carrying you away with all the promises of tomorrow just to bring you back to the almost same place you started from, to confuse, bewilder, inspire and disappoint all over, again and again until you catch it by the tail like a snake and try to ride the waves instead of being swept away, looking from above the clouds and finally seeing the point of all this commotion.
Where are the milder days, softer undertones of pastel pallette
Subtle colors and lights, lukewarm temperatures of spring and fall
Easing you in a new day, season, clothing
Slowly fading heat of the summer, lazily turning scarlet leaves
Misty fog of wearing off winter visible through the eyelashes
Drop by drop melting icicles
The very first grass reluctantly appearing from under the snow
Streaming facets of time with the million of reflections
Rolling away, cautious and unhurried
The world moving in a slow motion
As it used to be
Long time ago
Life is a torment.
Enjoy the moments when it lets you breathe before stamping on your throat to see how much more you can take. Playing 'catch & release' until it's time to go.
Moments is all we have, rare and precious and easy to forget while struggling to keep afloat in a current that seems determined to drag you down into the black depth without the beginning or end.
The sun rays touching your skin on a first spring day... The wind wrapping your wounds in soft layers of clouds... The touch, soft and familiar that won't ever let go...
What do we have except our memories? The ones we left with that are burnt into our hearts branding us for life.
Painfully sweet reminders of other times, places, dimensions...
Surprisingly bright sparks that light up the past leading cautiously along the half-forgotten corridors, bringing back small irrelevant details, colors, sounds, faces. It's like revisiting after many years an old and vaguely familiar town, retracing your own steps. Once a part of an everyday routine it looks deceivingly homely and foreign at the same time.
What do we see? A moment in time with ourselves divided between past and present that are moving further apart. A moment to bridge this divide, to grasp the distance, change, to feel again the joy of coming back and inevitable sorrow of leaving.
This trip that we keep making, revolving door between the points in time connected in multitude of ways with the common denominator - us.
What are they? Our comfort or curse, in softer shades or painfully sharp angles, soothing or excruciating, or maybe a forcibly mixed contradiction of both. Palette is overextended beyond any color or sound, flavor or fragrance.
In one of the days all tracks of time will be lost, leaving this endless labyrinth to wonder alone with sound of long-forgotten music burning ears, in search of something that can't be yet formulated, a constant reminder evoking from a long hibernation emotions so strangely native to the soul.
Dreams are so clearly argumented competing with the light of day, fighting for attention, replacing the reality with the arrogance of a newcomer.
What a confusion, memories as an amalgam of life and dreams...
Memories like boats
In spinning water,
Rolling with the waves
On ups and downs
Through the storms or calm
In search for places
Somewhere we hope to be
One bright afternoon
With softer shades of gold
Where final destination
Is a bliss
And life - a conclusion,
Where timeless race
Whichever won or lost