Literary escapades

Я опять ускользаю от сна Мне все также снится весна Спрятав тонкие крылья под крышей Воздух тихо колышется, дышит Пальцы в клавишах ищут покой Отдыхая над каждой строкой Спотыкаясь о камни дня Я ищу в отражении Меня     Nov 29, 2010 

Rolling away in d rops of rain Rustle of leaves is more pronounced Scarlet flames are slowly dying  Leaving traces here and there Skies are fading behind clouds

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.  Simpler days... 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 pic...

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 i...

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.

Beauty is illusive.  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.  O n 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 l...

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,...