Prosaic excerpt of the Sunday: Absolutely Meaningless Observations Of An Adult Child With Certain Unresolved Issues

Another season is nearly over. The nice one (if to not consider those few insufferable weeks of roasting sun when you wish for a magical, massive slingshot to pop that merciless bulb in the sky). It feels like summer is trying harder and harder to bring the warmth but it gets less and less efficient. And no one is ever ready for the change. Yet people had a piss in the sea, kids got tanned, and mums got acclimatisation herpes. Summer is truly always full of surprises. After this hot carousel of colours and spoiled thoughts, time is suddenly cooling down sweaty bodies a bit too much and a bit too fast.

 Sigh.

 No one is ever ready for the change, even though everybody is aware of the end. Everybody sighs. Why then do people love autumn? Probably observing this time of year as the ageing of summer, people are for an instant experiencing a certain comfort about their own ticking clocks, contentedly-sad they compare it to something inferior, romanticising about the weather, escaping the dreadful transiency of their own lives and dodging this time, making it easy. The instinct of moral self-preservation. The last warmth, last bright little days, Indian summer: the precious leftovers of summer. Lethargy comes and everything is coming to the decline, and nothing is as sad as autumn. People enjoy sadness, sacrificing summer for a good harvest, a bittersweet farewell. Freshly made memories and supplies of vitamin D. Like squirrels, people are still stocking up and preserving one way or another. Posting and boasting their unforgettable holidays, continuously trying to resemble the most charming and fun people in the world: look at my summer, like me, love me, make me a celebrity #... But summer doesn't give a shit; nature does its habitual cycle gradually fading away with a little help from its ‘friends’. No one’s ready for that either.

Nostalgia, it is already here, and that favourite bed linen no longer feels as nice and cooling in the morning as it used to only a couple of days ago. Memories do not warm, they distract (which is at least something).

The Sacred August, the most desirable of all. Ripe and tender. And summer nights’ special smell is at its peak along with meteor showers that make our dreams sparkle. August is like a bridge that everyone must pass, but getting to the middle we get a chance to stop for a moment and watch those sparkling dreams. A chance to get ready. Then every morning is getting colder. The barely noticeable odour of the sea is rolling back to its coasts, hiding deeper into the mother seas’ bottom pockets. Every year, again and again, we never learn, we are never ready.

(Absentmindedly we wonder how long one person can keep itself in a plural number, calling itself ‘we’, ignoring the narrow subjectivity of its own vision of life and attributing it to all the others.)

The wind now is the king, already trying on the seasonal crown and sending us like leaves wherever it deigns to. And this distinguished anticipation about new school year even if one finished it ages ago, even if one hated it, it just always comes.  Coffee is getting cold faster. August is nearly over.

And every morning I’m catching it all with my c&c on the balcony. Hungry for life I'm gulping as much as I can ,except Sundays, when everyone’s in and I dare not pass the living room (and disturb the TV’s praising ceremony) that leads to my outside nestling spot. And I said nothing of the key, I had good summers too. 

Another Day Poetry: Road

Road

Road and neon

It goes on and on

His warmth and his tone

And his stare into dawn

Fixed seats and treats

Few peanuts and sweets

Endless fields and pits

Tickling eyelids

Both blankets are mine

I share sometimes

Expectation's line

I'm fine, I'm thine

Tea and trees

And foreign breeze

Me touching his knees

Oh his knees, his knees

This thrill in my chest

Like the speed of pests

And this bus like a nest

Carrying us to the west

Towards the sun

Night makes us one

World makes us none

And we run, we run

To heal and regain

To the sea from the rain

All tears are the same

They don't have names

This is our abode

Full of rocks and odd

So pure and broad

Our road, our road

Also, allow me thank Bloc Party for their fantastic new album "Hymns" and for the inspiration and palpation of my emotions and memories. Especially this song that I've already listened to 80 times. xox

Prosaic Friday: Blinking

Blinking

The sun was leaving his street too fast. The street was longing for the light just like his soul was. Even when direct afternoon light was penetrating into every corner of this place, everything seemed to him invariably miserable and grim. Well, sometimes you just can’t help the way you see things, right?

He left his sleeping place and went out to the street hoping to catch up with the last promise of today’s sun. As always, it promised to return tomorrow. Either scorching or almost invisible, the sun has for already almost 5 billion years been fulfilling its promise to return, and it was nice for him to know.

Speeding up and wading between the tightly-planted houses, like air he was gulping the last gleam of the day. There, ahead, there is still a little bit, he thought to himself, focusing his gaze at the end of what seemed an infinitely sad street. The sky was dipping itself into the arms of darkness yet it was bright. Out there, above, the swallows were circling and crying incessantly. They were flying low, he could hear them. The atmosphere was pressing the ground with all its body. It will rain, he thought. Something superhuman and unfathomably painful was in their cry. Something too animal, something too wild for a landed human. After all, every blackfly on account for every bird and its offspring, survival couldn’t make them not to cry.

Along the way he thought that he could stay in the flat and bid farewell to the sunset from the window, but then, that eight-foot room would swallow him in blackness much faster. A bridge was very close.  The destination he was eager for. He crossed the road and took his phone out to take a picture. The picture was nothing particularly different from the other 90, but it was one more day that was born, lived, and was dying right in front of his eyes. He will not remember this day, they all have long been mixed into one but let it be pixelated and saved elsewhere just in case. That's all. He reached the remains of light and was saved just like the picture in his phone.

The bridge was empty just as he was. No people, no cars, no motion. It was getting dark quickly, hastily. Street lanterns were proudly showing initiative in the urban décor. An ambulance raced past. Nothing will help this day, he thought, call the morgue. For him, the night wasn’t a part of the day; it was a totally different dimension, with its rules, traditions, and way of existence. In these circumstances, he had nothing to do at night, or more precisely, in the night. A cold north wind in mid-July, the smell of alcohol digesting welcomes you past every pub implanted into the row of houses, sickly-sweet perfumes, meaningless electronic cigarettes, and people dressed as mannequins for real? Now anger was filling his soul. People. People make the place, right? They're unconditionally buying cheap flirtation and even the crudest attention, they admire each other's primitive intelligence, and now he hears the shouts of encouragement to a guy who just broke a bottle of beer. These people are narrow, flat, and happy fools, and unbeknownst to him, the envy has eclipsed the anger. Now a single night's darkness was not enough for him and he hobbled back home, to the smallest and darkest room in the world.

Cold wind has weather-beaten his thin skin but he imagined this city on fire with all the colours of the rainbow and it was warming him. Night. Infamous night. Go away and give me back my day, was he crooning on the way back. Empty like entrance of the house, lonely elevator, he entered the flat and quietly made himself a cup of tea, in order not to wake the rest of the monsters in his head. Today there was enough of them.

The door of the room. Closed curtains. Squeezed wooden bed between two thin walls. They are all too unfriendly. He doesn’t care, he closes his eyes and the thought of a new day that brings new hopes lulls his heavy heart. Light will come and all will be brighter. Light will come.

His sleep is instant and deep, he barely sees dreams. They are deceptive though comforting. He is too tired of them.

The morning. He feels it with his eyes closed, but only when he opens them there is no light. Is the night not over? Or have I gone blind? But there is no panic, it does not frighten him, he sees the dark with open eyes and it feels good, it feels like light and it doesn’t matter if there is no more light, because he doesn’t need it anymore.

A little later he woke up again to find a lock of dark hair on his face. The hair that replaced the light and darkness, the hair which makes both equally deep and light. Day 91. 

All rights reserved.