give me the cloud
give me the reason to grow
tall
as a tree
in an old abandoned part
of the city park
give me the mountain
so i can learn how to walk
and
travel
between here and then
give me the lazy morning
so i can stare at you
through the emptied glass
like a cat
after the sleepless night
give me a cup after coffee
so i can read
your oracle
for today or tomorrow
or maybe
next weekend
give me some hope
and give me some bread
give me some music
so i can dance
put the words on my tongue
and let me pray
so i won’t be foolish
when i ask for
something
next day
the poach of the bar after the poetry evening.
“no … it ended already.. u are too late”
“…”
“…?”
humming a song
“…let me.. let me stay here for a few… minutes..”
“….sure”
in the light of the midnight moon shivering in the autumn wind two were smoking. quietly. nostalgically. melancholically.
to be true sometimes i feel lost about in which language to write.
i never studied properly any of them. the small fragments i know come from books and social networks. i don’t know how people with a mother tongue feel about writing, as i never used my spoken language to write. not in chats, not for daily notes or a diary.
as i moved away from the language i used to write in, it disappeared from my daily life. i never spoke it or thought in it, just heard and read it. over time, it felt like it withered away.
all those years of using it on paper just melted into nothingness.
and that's the story of how i started writing in english. (and why my english is so bad)
now i'm trying to write at least something. but it feels like making a map of a cave with no light.
today my keys fell to the ground twice.
as i bent to pick them up,
the world bent with me,
curving slowly downward.
i press the button,
softly illuminated red
in complete darkness.
the light flickers on.
climbing up to the attic, i wonder:
“why do i always ramble about my past,
giving wry advice not to follow my steps?”
i open the door with the wrong key.
rings off—
two from my pinky,
one from my thumb.
emptying pockets,
one at a time:
headphones, glasses,
tram tickets, phone,
watch from my wrist,
earrings removed.
i got my camera back today,
from a kid i had to teach for a while.
the thought lingers:
“why do they look up to me?
there’s nothing to see but an exhausted body.”
but i already know.
they have nothing else to look up to,
because everything they see
is exhausted bodies
living exhausting lives.
“… stepping across the greenish
whips of kelp, the broken shells,
the polished pink sea-glass
and the little cold stones..”
23-07-01
I had a dream. I was falling in love. Softly, slowly, inevitably. Just like the flowers of spring turning into summer leaves. I felt truly present. The fourth time we were supposed to meet near the lake on a green field, bombs started to fall on the city. We didn't meet again.
what i may need in the future :
how to build small solar battery
how to build a house
how to make a cloth / fabric (wavering / knitting) and what materials i would need for that
how to make pottery
how to set up a green house
what is forest / mixed gardening and how does it works
how to collect seeds
how to maintain plants
firs aid stuff and medical herds
how to dry / preserve food
how to filter water / how to make a water pump
seasonal plants / difference of ecosystems
watering systems
basic mechanics and engineering (really basic) and probably architecture
how to work with wood and make strong stuff without nails (Japanese style)
what can i collect from the forest ?
how to paint walls and do the inside of the house etc.
how to build and maintain a small sail-boat
how to maintain a motorcycle
how to live with cows and chickens (including making butter)
how to make shampoo and soap
went to the forest today.
heavy boots on,
jacket smells of someone’s perfume.
took a long trail, wiggling through the woods,
watching leaves, listening to birds.
as i walk,
night draws closer,
crawling into the woods
like a beast returning
to a place so well known.
it gets into leaves at the tops of the trees
it gets into river and sandy trails underfoot
it gets into moss and song of the birds
everything turns gloomy
falling asleep
with the night
coming home
as i walk
farther,
and farther,
deep into the woods…
something feels off.
the place i’m currently living.
the doors i’m opening.
eyes i see.
words i say carelessly.
u witness me struggling
and u went far enough
to lend me a volume
of Britannica
u tell me
this is that
and that is this
and i believe you
because who else
would i let
build my temple ?
“…why am i going to sleep so late?”
conversation softly murmured through the stained glass
• i was talking on the phone with someone… i’m not sure if they were completely real, or rather … fully present.
• were they answering?
• yes, but not in a human language. those words were theirs.
• …
• i could understand sometimes, but not entirely. i spoke in human language, but it felt too narrow… too shallow. i lacked the sounds to convey my sadness.
• …
• they kept talking, about important things. i asked questions, but not always.
• what did you see?
• a marble sky and an obsidian moon, smiling wryly.
• …
the heavy oak door closes, voices melting into the silence, echoing in someone’s head.
“…where am i going tonight…?”
on the road,
not the one on the map—
no.
moving with an unsettling feeling,
maybe fearlessness,
even while being lost.
always on my way [home],
through twilight,
never reaching the point.
dimmed light,
cold air—
a reminder of passing time.
years cover me
like fresh snow
on a quiet night.
we move through time [place],
clinging tightly in a swing.
and while dancing,
you look me in the eye—
i feel overwhelmed—
the god is watching,
and i have nowhere to hide.
we bow in this flow,
like a bloom in the snow.
and while dancing,
i look into your eyes—
i feel overwhelmed—
the world is burning,
and there is nowhere to hide.
i wish i could teach,
be eternal,
fix old triumphs,
and sleep like a sheep
on an empty field.
i wish for a home
with a library
full of friends,
a cherry pie —
freshly baked,
and a tree as tall as the world.
as we dance while stars are dying,
i make my wish:
maybe,
in a million years,
someone
will see the star fall,
whisper these lines,
wrap them in silver dust,
and wish for me
as i wish for those before me.
on the road,
at the end of september—
two more days,
two more years,
just two [anything] more …
and then …
then …
smoke from the cigarette turned pink in the setting sun.
[…] is smoking, sitting in tall grass, surrounded by darkening skies, birds, clouds, the whistling wind of the old town, cryptic constellations, unforgotten memories, and busy bugs.
[…] sits like a statue, frozen, staring at a single point.
they are lost—
inside out lost.
but in this abandonment, they are liberated.
as they let the world go without them, they begin to grow—
like a tree setting down new roots.
бурштинова сережка
TO FORET AND TO LET GO
the day. unpleasant memories. faces. the voice. names. tightly intertwined thoughts. underlying truth. unkept promises.
here is the list of things that may or may not be helpful :
• mouldy diaries
• archaic blogs
• long forgotten folders on your computer
• 5 years old chat archives
• comments you left under some posts on tumblr when you were 10 years younger
• your first meticulously collected playlist
• scent of the book that were collecting dust on your shelf for the last decade because you "grew out of it"
traces you left. empty shells you outgrew. scattered memories that are long gone.
try to fit them. from time to time.
TO DREAM INTENTIONALLY
the moment you're ready to go to bed, sitting in a dark room, sealed from any sound
your head pulses with a low, vibrating hum
listen closely, try to sort the tones. listen closer, try to hear the voices behind them. listen closer until the voices turn into colours.
start dreaming.
at 7:35 night became day. the lights were turned off.
today i woke up,
took a shower,
and went to work.
i ran for coffee,
but the machine was broken.
the barista gave me a ticket,
“- i fixed it, no worries,
next cup is on me.”
i ran for the bus,
placed my cup on the ground—
too hot to sip, as usual.
i listened to you,
as you told me about your day.
as we took a turn,
i glanced out the window—
the mountain peaks
hidden in autumn clouds,
grey skies melting into gold,
coating the snowy foothills.
the horizon glowed—
a thin line of gold
between stone and cotton.
you wished me a nice day
and a good cup of coffee.
i got off the bus and went to work.
your day had also begun,
on the other side of the universe.
noise,
eyes,
ears,
laughs.
people waited for me in the classroom,
welcoming me as i entered.
through the break,
i struggled with the piano keys.
the rain started,
the air was cold when i left.
at the train station,
you approached, waved at me—
i didn’t recognize you.
another god turned mortal.
my body shook with fear.
you hugged me,
we took the same train.
for the first time,
i spoke to you without awkwardness.
you left.
i felt nothing when you did,
i didn’t turn back to look at you.
the third time,
and i let you go,
this time forever.
i checked my mailbox on the way home—
a letter.
you texted me,
we planned to walk.
i put on a jacket,
stepped outside
into autumn—
grey skies,
yellow leaves,
strong winds,
shimmering rain,
empty streets.
we walked through the city.
you asked if i was okay
several times.
i said i was—
i don’t know if you believed me.
i got home,
without giving you a kiss.
my feet were sore from walking.
after a long day, i return home
home again—
a different home.
not the one i used to have to keep and protect
not the one with long late breakfasts
not the one with the wall dedicated to library and framed photos
the other home
the place
i sleep at
the place
i dress at
the place
i keep my frozen food at
my long days fold into luminous figure
self repeating fractal
of my precise observations and reflections.
and every piece of my mind depicts now
this alien yet intimate place
i proclaim my home.
as the night falls
the sky starts to shine
and the sadness comes
with the stars illuminating my fears
and here i am
not ready to die
denying my own mortality
back alone
at my home.
long day comes to an end.
monsoon season.
sky covered in storm clouds brings first autumn rain.
i’m staying in bad practicing self pity.
my face is burning from bad skincare experiments.
tomorrow is another workday. i feel nauseous from the thought.
i love my work. but i can’t carry any responsibility.
as well as make any decisions.
i don’t know what to do.
i’m not sure ..
i can’t be sure
when everything around me feels like road dust.
today i woke up. all gloomy and tired. covered in traces of forgotten dreams. i was fighting giants and gambling with mages a moment ago. now i’m a simple mortal in my simple bed.
i wake up and make myself a breakfast. i look through the media in faint hope to find something worth living. i find nothing. and proceed with my breakfast.
i’m thinking of going on a walk. i would love to have a long walk. days… maybe months long. but i only go to the nearest coffee shop.
i feel that i never would be someone reliable. i can’t carry any responsibilities. i’m just not good for that. no. i made to be an incarnation of chaos and absurd. yet i dream of a great power. i dream of a power that can move the stars and resurrect worlds.
because as i am now i’m nothing but a pitiful creature. trying to spend my life and melt into world as if i never been here.
i murmur to myself — please forget about me, please let me go.
yet here i am perfectly present in each and every of my words.
shiny outlines of the morning trees
vibrant silver moon on indigo sky
rainy days. foggy thoughts.
i’m leaving myself alone
in the corner of my room
hoping it would help.
hanging myself on a shoulder
in a closet.
to not see.
to not witness.
slow deterioration.
unavoidable pain i have to acknowledge.
i hate how weak i am.
i hate how hopeless i am.
i hate that i’ve been given hope yet it was shattered without possible repair.
my heart is killing me.
my body is giving up on me.
as i gave up on them.
occasional memory lights up.
we are travelling as a family
long road with some ups and downs
through the yellow black fields
gas station on a horizon
we make a stop
large trucks parked on a parking lot
topples men brushing his teeth
someone smoking
the dogs barking
we get out of the car
into the heated air
smell of petrol
i look up at the sky
no clouds
just some birds hunting
my brother is quiet
so are my parents
thinking about something
separately
i guess my father would have a coffee
and then some ice cream
i want to go into the field and touch the wheat
but i stay
and daydream instead
in light i deemed to sleep
the stars are reaching borders
of summer night sky
violently pushing inky fog
deep into the corners
of my cluttered room
i fall asleep
dreaming of the blue summer
pierced with lights
Sometimes I think, what if I leave all of my doubts behind?
What if I escape the duality of my mind?
What if I let go of any attachments or strong emotions?
Would I demolish myself that way?
Or would I liberate myself?
I was born to carry wisdom,
Yet I'm a fool walking all paths without finishing any.
Why are there many teachings?
Why are there many saints?
Why am I able to believe and follow more than one?
I'm lost in my thoughts,
And this chaos is corroding me from within.
I have no name and no destiny.
I abandoned my god and my family.
I abandoned the teachings I consumed,
So my cup is empty again.
But now it feels shattered.
Not enough to be beautifully repaired,
Yet enough to leak and leave nothing inside.
There is no need to be disappointed.
Not all souls achieve liberation,
Yet all meet their end
With one inhale.
So perhaps I have no reason to suffer,
As there is no heaven and no hell,
As there is no lotus and no mud.
Lately, I’ve been feeling good about myself.
Being in my body means being in the presence of the wind. Being in my body means being in the presence of the light.
To feel the softness of young grass.
To feel the coldness of ancient stones.
But in my fears I’m longing for life while living it,
and in the presence of time asking for more, to live.
I’m asking for eternity to be given to me.
I’m wishing for proof,
as only those in the presence of undying gods wished.
as only those who were after touching the scars of their gods did.
I wish to be adored by the sky and the earth and the ocean
so they will be tender while carrying me.
so i would never fall nor fail.
so i would always be beloved by someone.
The life I’m living is no life,
as the words I’m saying are no words,
as the steps I’m making leave no footprints.
So there would be no me,
as there has never been any of me.
and yet,
Lately, I’ve been feeling good about myself.
20.04 12:54 sunny day.
thinking about god in the memories i hold. thinking about holding memories. thinking about thoughts of the past.
17..04 09:35 rainy morning
tired even though just woke up.
i terminated my deadline and i’m not sure that i’ll be able to make it.
i’m struggling with the desire to go for a coffee.
but i know that it probably won’t help me work.
15.04. 13:34 rainy day.
let my friend go on the train back to their far away land.
spoke with my brother on the phone. nothing new, yet the echo of constant change resonates through every word spoken.
i'm looking forward to this week that i decided to spend in complete isolation. i feel responsible for finishing illustrations for my book that should be published someday. i have to fulfill this checkpoint. i feel the need for achievement to move further.
my father told me a few days ago that my aunt might let me use her summer house for the holidays. i think it could be a perfect opportunity to spend time with friends and finish our project if we can solve our bureaucratic problems.
I'm feeling a bit lost but trying my best not to be toxic toward myself. the process of shaping and reconstruction is really hard and exhausting.
the stuff i need to feel myself:
smaller apartment, including dishwasher, washing machine, full-sized bath, and sink. space furnished with pieces i chose carefully and personally. piano and acoustic guitar. long table in the kitchen for dinner parties. a balcony or a hidden garden in a backyard. the space i can fit and fill.
highly paid computer-related jobs with a low amount of communication from 9 to 15.
my own coffee shop - aka personal/public art studio - atelier - collaboration center. big broad tables, a lot of light, instruments, and materials. a small room for tea.
super fast laptop and internet to avoid any physical limitations.
gym in the basement of my house. me running in the late morning through the forest, playing big tennis on weekends with friends and a trainer, doing tai chi in the garden late in the evening. yoga daily as a wake-up.
eating only fruits and soups. feeling myself clear and light. feeling the power and energy to move.
communicating less. listening more. writing more. reading more. collecting a personal library. finishing personal projects.
small wardrobe of a few items. short but fluffy hair. clean skin.
music… just a lot of good sound all around.
talking only thoughtfully. no small talk. no courtesy or politeness.
objects:
• noise-canceling headphones
• pack of color pencils
• two soft blankets
• one slim pillow
• a lot of candles
• scented oils
• one wooden bowl and one huge heavy ceramic cup
• set of sunglasses
• filter coffee machine
• rusty piano
• two guitars
• cutting, printing, clipping, sewing instruments for crafts
• orange lamp
middle of the night, and i’m on my way home;
a weird feeling of repetition and
and alienation circles inside.
the sky is clear,
yet the darkness is so firm
that only the small aureole of light
produced by the car’s lights is visible.
the noise of the train station
is similar to the sound of a blossoming cherry tree.
people — night dwellers?
no, not yet.
the soft nature of the young night
descends on their eyes,
imbued with the dreaminess
of a day asleep.
i’m coming to my place,
to be consumed
by accumulated tiredness.
i feel like the biggest change i can’t cope with
is lost of words.
there are no words inside
anymore
no more beautiful words
to depict the world.
no happiness to hide the gloom
only the vulgar presence.
the stink of mundane is following me
and i’m sorry for that.
i lost any magic
that were shimmering deep inside.
i just want to be human.
as all humans.
not tired.
not endlessly sad.
no rotting inside.
looking at the sun
with widely open eyes.
smelling the newly bloomed flowers
in the middle of the street.
Late night. The foggy streets shimmer with expectations for the future feast. Trams shake lightly, bumping into the walls of thick smoke. I venture further into the night, accompanied by the clicking noise of the tower clock. Does anyone recognize my presence? The shadow or shape of my existence, in the thick darkness of the sparkling town.
long almost cinematic travel. emotional dialogues. walks through nowhere. the passage to adulthood.
long day. the beginning of summer holidays. weird feeling of abandonment. i'm thinking a lot about human relationships. about communication and interaction.
what does it mean to be a human being ?
what does it take to be a part of human society ?
do we need language ?
do we need ethics ?
do we need an elaborate system of perception-explanations and believes ?
do we need cities ?
i'm questioning myself how much of a human i am. during the long summer days and short summer evenings i see stars and the depth of infinity universe while comparing it to the broadness of my self perception. the way i started seeing human is non-centric, melted into environment, lost in interpretation of self perceptions and overwhelmed by technology. we become something less important that our collective products. so we embraced the idea of production. and overproduction. as an outcome to avoid meaninglessness - the consumption. and overconsumption. now we lost the taste. the inner intuition which were showing us the path of natural sublimation. now we existing in the world without borders. without scales.
what does it mean to be a human in the world without border ?
probably to be able to consume or to produce. so-forth to be a part of human society would mean to be actively practicing both.
but why human societies centered around consumption ?
maybe we can change it if we find the root.
літо мене виснажує. я не знаю як люди живуть в пустелі. здається що кожна краплинка моєї свідомості випалюється сонцем. я стаю схожою на вигорівшу фотокартку яка вже кілька років непорушно висить на дверцятах холодильнику.
long day. dinner with neighbors. hortensia flowers in the garden. evening coffee with chocolates. i'm trying to see through the sadness. maybe i will find something further occasionally. maybe i will evaporate sooner. i feel that my life carries no meaning. or at least not more than a life of a moth.
lost.
Do people even remember how it was? Talking... long evenings daydreaming of lost ancient cities, golden tigers, poems written on stones.
i miss the world tenderly covered by smoke and dust. fuzzy creation of mystic minds. elaborately crafted from words and tactility.
говоря о чем-то новом. я забываю себя в зимнем пальто. с первыми морозами нахожу случайно. пока роюсь в поисках спичек.
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