Wednesday 21 November 2012

beyond existence there's life

I have tried to find  shape made of words for what I feel now. You told me that I always know what to say, but it's hardly the case.
There are moments in which life inspires me, and then words flow like champagne in my head and I could write for hours and each single thought would make sense to me.

sometimes I am empty. Nothing in me, nothing out of me.

One single moment like electricity passing from one soul to the other and the thin unawareness implodes creating a feeling you can't understand.
I don't care understanding anything. I want to feel.
Understanding kills my emotions and I am made of emotions. 

I feel trapped.

I need to open my wings and fly, burn myself with the sun, crash on the ground. But not having my light being blown off like I would be a candle.

You crossed a path.
I was on that path.
Call it coincidence, statistic.
I call it destiny.

I believe the half of me is out there and if I follow the common sense I am never going to find it.
What matters is feeling.
Feeling until we can.
Feeling pain, pleasure, happiness or despair, that's not important.
The important is that if with your words, your voice, your presence, even for a minute you make me feel alive, that minute will be a minute actively lived.

I want to live. Existing is not enough.

I have been forced, abused, brainwashed, I have known fear, hate, filthy passion and desperate happiness, and it all went. 

You are the sun today, you can chose to shine a while for me, still being innocent even if we are stealing apples from the knowledge tree, you can chose to send me back to black.
I will have just missed a chance.
So will you.

I am not able to write all these emotions on a line. I have let the wind come in and they'are all messed up now. 

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NOTE OF THE AUTHOR: I am going to rest now, up to the late night hours

Sunday 18 November 2012

I need some sleep

I don't feel like working or writing or moving at all today.
I am thinking about a lot of things and nothing.
I am thinking about the way I am hiding, to protect other people and therefore denying the fact that I am not like they want to see me.

I am a coward and I am afraid of losing the privilege of a comfortable life.

But I have had my dose of discomfort in the years that passed.
I have been fighting with all kind of things and persons, I have been on the edge of losing all, I have played with my life like in a discreet Russian roulette I was the only one being aware of and I have shut a lot of doors behind me.

I'm paying that now. The doors I have closed cannot be opened anymore, they are doors made of a thick unbreakable glass making me face the chances I have burned every day. I see them, beyond the glass and I can't do anything, I can't turn the time back and try again.

Sometimes I ask myself if what I feel can be called regret, but I don't think so. It's just a silent pain, something you can't describe with words, the awareness that my life is not going to be forever.

Death scares me. No...the void scares me. The silence scares me. Leaving...scares me.

That's why I stay where I stay and do what I do. Because I am so fucking scared.

There have been people trying to convince me that death is nothing to be scared about. Other people told me it's useless to be scared about something you can't change.
But I have seen it. I have seen it on the face of people I loved, I have seen it take away the only person who counted for me. And it was scary, it was cold, it was lonely, excruciating, inevitable and terrible.

Today I didn't feel like writing, but I am doing it because writing is the only thing that saves me from losing my sanity when I am in this mood.

I dreamed of spiders last night. All over my body they were coming out from my skin...thousands of them. I was terrified. I woke up in sweat, my breathe out of control and I couldn't fall asleep anymore.

Today I didn't feel like writing, but now that I am doing it I feel like I would be drinking and slowly falling into the soft warm oblivion of alcohol. Writing is better, you won't be out of service for three days afterwards, only a little bit slow and anesthetized but I can cope with that.

I don't know what I have to believe in now. I look at my hand and the lines on my palm seem to change their length and direction. I am hallucinating. I would like to be able to hallucinate some more and feel your hand touching my hair again, like in the past. Still I can't understand why it stopped. That made me feel so much better.

The more I calm down, the less my head can produce words and sentences. This post will be over in a few lines.

I have been able to survive the crash for twenty years and, believe me, twenty years is a fucking lot of time.
I would like a period of twenty years of being carefree to start right now, but I am not allowed so much time, and I am too drenched in my own convictions to allow myself a blank mind and just enjoy.
I am a cunt, but that's the way I know myself.
The last thing I need right now is looking at me without recognizing what I see.
Wherever I go, I can at least be sure that Boris, that old jerk, will not let me down.

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NOTE OF THE AUTHOR: I want to sleep...like 3 days without waking up. What the fuck.

Sunday 11 November 2012

Anaerobic breathe

Far from the city, behind a low hill, where a long time ago there was the shoe factory, there is now a gipsy camp.
I often go there for a walk, it's mostly a silent place.
Especially at night, the only thing you hear is the sound of a violin, playing the same melody, over and over again.

The person who plays this is really skilled I always say to myself but it's not only that, it's the melancholy, the struggle you hear in that music. I would like to see this passionate player.

A few months ago I was lying on the grass watching the sky and listening to the violin when the melody stopped.

After a while I heard silent footsteps in my direction and I sat up suddenly, ready to face whoever was coming towards me.

A man, I thought he was very young, even if I was not able to estimate his age.
His skin was pale and his hair seemed white in the moonlight.
His green eyes were wild at the point he seemed to be angry.

"I saw you. Every time you came here" he said, his voice was deep and didn't have any emotional intonation.
"What are you looking for?"

His aggression amused me.
"I am just relaxing and listening to music" I said smiling.

He frowned.
"The show is over. You should actually pay for it"
I raised my eyebrows in sarcastic disbelief.
"I see...was that you the one playing?"
"None of your business. And if you are smart you go the hell out of here"

without adding a word, the guy walked down the hill and disappeared in a silver caravan. I heard his voice shouting and the voice of a girl shouting back. After a while the girl ran out of the caravan.
The light was turned off and no sound could be heard anymore.

Once I came back to my apartment I took a shower standing under the hot water. I could not stop thinking about that guy. He was so thin he could be mistaken with a child but his deep voice and his harsh manners gave away he was a man, with a very bad attitude.
I smiled about how cocky he had come over to me.
I liked him.
I wanted to see him again.

The night after I went sitting on the hill again.
No sound could be heard, except the far noise of the city.

No violin. I thought disappointed.
I threw myself on the grass and I closed my eyes.

Suddenly I felt something jumping on me. At first I thought it was a wild dog or another wild animal, but the wild animal gripped at my shirt in a menacing way and I realized it was the wild boy of the night before threatening mounting me.

"Didn't I fucking tell you to stay away from here?"
I tried to get him off me but he was impressively strong.
"Why does it disturb you so much that I come here? I am not doing anything wrong...just enjoying the night."
"They don't like to have people watching them. Do you want to be hurt?"
I was really pissed off by this free low life attitude I looked at him without answering.

He got off me.

"I was just trying to protect you. Don't tell me I didn't warn you when something happens".

I realized that after that evening nothing would have been the same anymore.
I had to talk to him.

"I wanted to see you again" I uttered
Good Boris, that's the best way to inform him about your...preferences.
"I don't even know your name"

He looked at me. He didn't seem surprised, charmed or annoyed from the fact I could eventually like him.

"My name is Yura Semenov"
"I'm Boris. Boris Le Boursier"

He smiled. It was a smile of someone who is not used to be happy.

"If you promise to be very very silent, I am going to show you where I live. But don't!...don't say a word...ok?"
I nodded.

We quickly walked down the hill. I tried to walk in his footsteps, I had the impression that it would have made less noise that way.

The door of the silver caravan was open and the dimmed light inside was colouring the interior in warm tones.
Right behind the door there was a little kitchen and on the right there was a big couch covered with several layers of coloured fabrics. On the ground there were pillows and books in a very tidy disorder, I thought.

The walls were covered with drawings, mostly nude portraits: recurrent figures were a young woman and...me.

"What the..." I whispered remembering that I had promised to shut up.

He blushed.
"I am really surprised you never noticed me. I have been following you, since a long time. During the day, when you go read in the park, down at the City Hall Square, I come there and I draw you. That's why I wanted to warn you Boris...because in a certain way...I care about you"

He turned to the kitchen "Want something to drink?"
I nodded, he poured some kind of dark drink into a small glass taking one for himself too.
He gave it to me showing me the couch "Let's seat" he said.

In the caravan was very warm, I took out my jacket. Yura took out his blouse.
On his left shoulder there was a tattoo representing a  black sun.
He saw me looking at it.
"that's how they call me here întuneric soare, it means dark sun"

We drank. Yura explained me that the liquor was made by the Romani and it was made of plums, fruits and blossoms. The taste was a bit sour but it was sweet as aftertaste. I liked it.

Yura took a sketch book from the ground and he handed it to me, then he filled his glass again, I refused to have more and begun leafing through the sketchbook.
It was all drawings of me.
On the last page I was lying on the couch in the caravan naked, Yura on me.




I looked at him.
His green eyes were wild, a languid light in their depth.
That's what you have been dreaming of? I thought. He nodded, like he could have read my mind.
He crawled on my lap, like a wild cat.

He took away my shirt and begun working on my belt. When he finally got me naked he pushed me down on the couch and finished undressing himself.
He sat on me. He smelled of incense.
I was so high of his scent I was almost exploding.
He whispered words to my hear, words I can't remember, words like an hypnotic charm.
While talking he was kissing my body, licking my neck, his cold hands all over my heated body.

Sex tasted of far lands I've never been to. Spicy, harsh, sweet and desperate.
Our breaths were running after each other and our skins were like magnet.
We discovered each other until dawn came discreet to tell us it was time to stop the game.

We dressed quickly and we went back on the hill as silent as we had come.

"When will I see you again?"

While I asked him my head was a hurricane of emotions I could not dominate
...it's like you would be my oxygen and when you are not there I would stop breathing, waiting for the next time I can see you again...

He kissed me silent and he looked around furtive "tonight...I want you again...come tonight..."

Since then I passed every night with him, always in his caravan, listening to his violin, which, now I know it, was playing only for me, making love and holding each other like lost kittens, in a corner of the world.

I know he is not mine. Yura is wild and free, nobody can possess him, if you are lucky you can feel him, and he will decide when, how and for how long.

I don't want anything more than that, his scent, his skin, his words (that I still cannot remember) whispered while we make love.
Every second of him is the lymph keeping me alive, I am like a plant needing its dark sun to survive.

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NOTE OF THE AUTHOR: you can see a portrait of Yura here
PS: thanks for this dream