bo so ro

young god,

childish god,

blessed demiurge of endless plains.

lotus flowers bloom,

twining into a crown upon your head.

i leave the stars

to kiss your forehead,

to grant you dreams,

and roads,

and countless doors.

i write with whispers on your palms:

may the winds always blow your way,

may the wine always taste sweet,

may your feet always stay light.

my beloved,

you are the rabbit

sprinting through the mountains,

leaping to the moon.

with every step, you create shrines,

with every word, you shatter fears.

you sing in forgotten voices,

and i let you sing

until the sun sinks beyond the horizon.

the sky, the deep obsidian sea,

reaches over fields of uncut grass,

shattering itself into moonlit sparks,

draping the plains with your presence.

i am tired… and there is nowhere else to go..

not anymore…

so be my shelter, my forest —

forever dark,

forever lovely.

krai neba palaie (the edge of the sky is on fire)

that’s the line from one of the poems written by a person who long time ago become an icon of identity and freedom in my homeland.

that’s also the name of the first work my friend directed as a part of her studies. telling about teenage-hood loss and alienation of ourselves as we grow up and begin to slice pieces of our newly crystallised selves to fit into practices accepted by society as a proper way of being.

the author of this line had to go through deportation in sense of forced relocation to the region with endless winter, to work in stone mines.

my friend had to relocate from our homeland to another country because of the war. she had to leave her loved ones and go somewhere where she can exist. where the horizon won’t be set on fire one morning.

i haven’t talked to my friend for a long time. i guess.. we just became different people now. to far away from our past teenage selfs to be recognised by each other now.

i do not want to define my art.

i do not wish for it to be explained.

i think the huge loss of postmodernism and everything after it is over explanation, and following overexposure.

i want my art to be silent. and in this silence nearly sacral.

no definition, because divine can not be defined.

no explanation, because for sacral u do not use explanatory words.

it is as it is. be in its presence. feel it. let it into your thoughts.

and if you want - let it stay there.

tired tiger - black tears over river.

the heart of winter melting

with the spark of a candle.

flickering lights

of the hungry eyes.

were you my god ?

in another life

on the other side.

you were the sound

of the leafs falling

touching the wet dump ground.

summer thunder

tormenting my heart

with a pure hopelessness of love.

tired tiger

shedding golden blood

over the yellow river.

i don’t remember who i’ve been before coming to life. some dreams maybe. but i guess there is nothing to remember but a universe.

evening bird shining brighter than the moon

In the beginning, mountains are mountains and rivers are rivers; later on, mountains are not mountains and rivers are not rivers; and still later, mountains are mountains and rivers are rivers.

sometimes i watch a movie and it makes me feel blessed with letters and words.

Eight Immortals of the Wine Cup. reversed moon.

He was a devotee of ancient temples, a fine swordsman, and a great lover of sour plum wine

бой широкого шага

бой краткого шага

“… stepping across the greenish

whips of kelp, the broken shells,

the polished pink sea-glass

and the little cold stones..”

quote from here

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.

lost.