Faded. The Night Time Tale

Sense of burning in the cheeks, just like one after a full day of sunbathing by the riverside. Numbness. I stretch my crossed legs. Numbness, tingling, then sensation. My head, however, was as clear as it hadn’t been in weeks. Lacking sleep appears to be efficient.

The sight of my bedroom starts swirling. To be exact, not the room itself swirls, it is me who, consciously feeling legs and body rotating and being transformed, somehow swirls around the bed. The thought of flying carpet shoots through the mind, but mythology is not the case. I am just a history student in university, apart from being an ordinary person. Both my parents living their ordinarily separated lives,  younger brother doing bad at mathematics, my mother requesting to teach him, my mind exploding having to deal with simple mathematics.

Everything suggests I am custom made, just as one of dozens tackling the same always-late, not-healthy-enough, always-single or i-am-broke. Looking at finger that I had cut with a kitchen knife at the yesterday breakfast, I see it turning into dust. Now, the other hand also disappears, and only the shadow of my non- existing self-assured me in the room ensures I am still here. Creases on my duvet cover, the unfinished cup of coffee and leftover birthday cake crumbles on the sheet calm me down for the first time in my life. It meant I was here. I had been here. Me myself.

I move across the room to check with the mirror. Moving feels like swimming. Always loved it: freeing and inspiring, so wild yet enjoyable. One never feels himself, one is always sliding and gliding while immersed into the river flows. Watergreens giving the way,  fish joining in the joyful underwater dance. In the world of a green, sun beams of gold play with flows of the river.

Now there is no sensation of water around by arms, no distorted sound of pebbles thrown in the river and no fish. Nothing. The complete silence in a room . Even the radio from neighbours’ room has stopped its ongoing murmur.  Birds outside had gone silent as well, and the wind was not playing music on wind bells, which had been there ever since I remember myself.

What a strange dream.

The world was fading away. Or was I? The tingling in my legs I worried about just moments ago, was now longed for. There was no sound, there was no sensation. The smell of coffee had faded away, and the delicately arranged flowers my grandmother had brought to me this weekend when visiting for my twenty second birthday were no longer smelling as freshly done laundry in the cottage. It had ,quite contrary, made  efforts to see myself in the mirror, even starker. The mirror frame, painted white and embellished with seashells from my last summer trip to the French Riviera was showing nothing more than just a plain, simple, yet nicely lighted room one would assign to 16-year-old.

The feeling of emptiness in the world around me, among friends, colleagues and even at home was suddenly fulfilling. Worse or better, that was their decision to make.

Now the physical nothingness was the obstacle for others only; me myself feeling the lightness, I was capable of living the life I was always longed for in my wondering mind. Sense was lost, the only thing that stayed was my thoughts. Perceptions, reflections, observations. Clear and extraordinary simple, the sense was now captured in the moment, the sight, and not one was real. The intuition, imagination and fulfilling of the unrealistic was welcomed to take over.



Unseasoned. Coffee Hours

All of the sudden I felt my eyelids twitching. It was something out of ordinary, as I was used to have a control. I learned to control anger that came in waves in the most unexpected moments, the sadness that stroke and left me with the only wish to disappear, or to merge with the river flow and drift away.

The trembles of my lids merged with the shivers of the trees outside the window. It was a cold November day and the last leaves from the summer were swirling away into nothingness. Not a one person was smiling, although the ambience of the light was astonishing. Millions and trillions of single bricks on the street, levelled to act upon the same old idea of peoples‘ need to move, each threw a strong shadow on the next one, and the next one after that. Sweepers had finished the work many hours ago, never seeing the fruits of their work. Working in the dawn, until the daylight killed the chimera with its previous nights‘ stars and sent wandering stargazers home, and sun broke its first beams to wake up the dreamers and bring them to reality. Committed to see the ugly side of community, not ever the people of cleanness were awarded and praised for the beauty of their work.

The coffee cup in front was now marking the thought archives of mine as I was wandering with the coffee stained rings on the insides of the porcelain cup, ridiculously detailed in the last fashion. The beam stroke my left eye. The straightness and contrast of it somehow shifted mood in the small place. The cafeteria was now cut across by the light, the beam being so clean and bright that it almost seemed to be unnatural. The whiteness brought out scratches on the wooden tables one by one. Table cloth was not changed from yesterday’s night, but ran over with an iron just before opening this morning. Someone had ordered tomato sauce just some hours ago. I wondered who that person was. Did he enjoyed it? On the other side of table there was a slightly yellow stain, most probably vinegar. Salad and tomato pasta. It was a date, late night date, between long married couple. No one stained tablecloths in the first dates, nor would choose a place like that to bring someone they were aiming to impress. The older lady at the counter I knew for years was now changed to young waitress, probably student. The unevenly and badly ironed tablecloth explained itself. No interest, or maybe a headache from yesterdays’ adventures. Dark circles, slightly smudged makeup. The second one.

Bells of the old Town Square Chapel struck the quarter to eight. Rings inside the coffee cup now endlessly merged with the black circle. I took the last sip. Half-moon, inversed colours. The cup on the saucer clang as I stood up, pushing the already unstable table. The antique doors   slammed, and the fresh breeze took me. Out.


The Morning Bus Girl

In ten minutes. No, will arrive in 5 minutes, to be precise. I always forgot to calculate the time according to the adjusted time on my watch. Adjustments not to be late, to fit in. The hour hand shined in the rising sun getting closer and closer to the Roman eighth marking. What a terrific watch.

I brushed my hand through my hair. Brittle, again. Where does all the protein I eat go? Wasn’t your hair supposed to be shiny, strong and double in volume? I had just recently started to adapt to my health-conscious friends and become obsessed with protein. Protein and exercise. In fact, the very reason why I was up and waiting for the bus to come in the very morning the day after Women’s Day was the gym subscription. With a bottle of cold water in one hand and old sports backpack on, I was telling myself I am doing this for my body and mind.

Seven minutes. The running advertisements in red would not stop. All night, all day they roll over and over again, never stopping, never changing. Depressing. But not just that, it is the reflection on my whole life. No change, no challenge. I was born in the same city, gone to the school with the same people that after a certain period of socializing I was supposed to call my best friends and who now formed my life.

But where was I? Aghhh, gym. I need a cig. It was more righteous than eating the breakfast my mother made me. Freshly cut bacon from yesterday’s market and eggs, poached and slided on my plate as soon as I wake up, made me sick. Besides, not eating at all would make my jeans fit sooner. Little dizzy at times, but effective. I touched the excitingly full and firm carton box in my left pocket. Relief, they were not all gone, yet. Popped it open and took one of the brownish cigarettes out. The light. Usually enjoying asking for a lighter, the options this morning were poor. Certainly, no good for a short morning flirt.

For one, there was a middle-aged man, with some strips of his hair turning white at sides and him probably having not seen the hairdresser for months. Wearing striped and slightly creasy new wool coat, Chocolate latte coloured wide pants that were too long and halfway covered in dirt in the back, he seemed to be having a tough time. His portfolio was fat, stacked with documents and tearing apart, and its leather sides shining by the use of fatty fingers carrying it. He obviously was thinking of something out worldly. Not the man itself, but the way he stood, waiting for the bus to come as it would take him back to the dreadfulness, his posture closely resembled my long-gone uncle who used to work for accounting department in the city hospital. That I imagine would be the way he looked at the job, not willing to arrive in the place where death, grief and illnesses were fruitful and celebrated by the management, whereas bad months financially had to be explained and stressed over.

Whenever he came over for a dinner, my dad always got straight into an argument with him. It could be anything, and my favourite part of the evening was to wait for the argument to emerge. Where would it come from? How long would the tension stay? In most cases, these were just small but extremely logical and philosophical talks. However, sometimes the argument would involve all the family. Even my older brother got intense! Maybe that was the point he decided to go for law school. However, the moment dessert was served – and what deserts my mother made! – blueberry pies, mango jellies, apple and banana boats and cream cakes – they were always.. large black tire carrying the blue bus appeared in the front of me to take me to my own dreaded world with no cigs, no breakfasts and no opinions allowed.  Ten minutes of freedom and wandering thoughts were gone.


She feels the fog slowly drifting away. Sun beams are busting her face, not letting to escape into infinity.  They start to burn her cheeks and forehead, as she feels redness all over with the lids still closed. Colours change, and the warmth of the moment overcomes the unwillingness to move.

Lids open slowly.

Sun hits.

Now with the clear light exposure over surfaces, imperfections and cracks, dirt and dust is seen clearly. Covering the book’s fabric cover and somehow making the objects disappear, dirt goes between the real and imagination. Just as dust.  It doesnt hold her back. Opening the book, her eyes are still foggy from yesterday’s joys. Slowly focusing on paintings and scribbles, and prints, she starts to read. Words go through her eyes, line after line, but never through her mind. She is silent and safe, can let herself decline, leave the thoughts and enjoy the miracle.

The sun smiles.


Where I see and where I breath

Where I lease and where I breed

Worlds wherein we do concede

Birds where never are released


Stiff and still and moving not

I will ever get you not


You said you felt sad this morning. Are you better now?

He looks me into eye, and I can not think of proper answer. His stare goes trough my head, and sun lights back his hair. A bit curly, undone and free. As for sadness, it gets worse and worse with every hour, because I have to leave soon.

Yes, I am better now. My walk was very nice. You can take this path and it will lead you to places that takes away your breath. And then when alone you can cry, you can shout. At yourself, at him.

The fire is on. He plays guitar, but I am frozen. I would love to sing, I want to be free, but it is impossible. That night he asks again. And I do not have to say I am sad. I can barely talk, my voice is fading away. It comes from very deep inside, and with all the strength to make it come out of that depth yes, I feel sad.  I must have been better before, otherwise I would not feel any sadness. But how can he not see, I can not talk? It feels sad, I know. I see it in you, although you laugh at all times.

But as fire lights up my mind it is not always about being sad and more sad, and better. Sometimes yo just do not let your emotions out. You keep them locked in your chest, you do what is required from you. Your tasks, your team works, your small talks. You make others feel, and to be more, you avoid yourself. And no one can say you felt better before. Because you did not. You did not feel at all, you did not allow yourself to feel.

Feeling takes time, and falling for emotions takes time. Anger is easy. Sadness is easy. Happiness is easy. Fear comes slowly and cripples under sadness, and under every thought, but never ever comes out in daylight. It is easy, sometimes. What I find hard is love. You never know what you feel, and for the most part it is just happiness, sadness and fear of being rejected. Who can define love? Sometimes I would fear for another person so much I would take all the risks. I that love? Or to be angry at yourself, and then to other, an ending up crying from joy. Or sadness.

It all bursts out, but you are never sure it is love. Not before you leave.




Slaida Skaista Smuidra Salda Sula Saime Stars

In a very small land full of forest and people that shy away from loud interactions and seek for meaningful connections, the language – harsh and direct, but flowing- by less than million is spoken.

Vibes from those words, positive and delicate, still being random, they resembled me the gaze of today’s sunshine on my face.

Can we read languages and sense the feelings from words written in letters used by everyone and fully understood by no one? Too perfect, too clear and concise, letters appearing on screen has no human interaction, no misleading handwriting, no imperfections and impressions.

Open a journal and just scribble, just doodle. No language, no meaning, but you understand, you can sense the person, the mood, the view of the world. You can feel it through every stroke and lift.

Here, nothing.