bo so ro

we all were kids of secretly religious parents

we were growing up learning prayers before alphabet

kissing icons

kissing crosses

we all were kids of cold winters and hot summers

and we all had grandmothers somewhere in the village

with fields of corn

fields of sunflowers

i remember we were playing outside

running through infinite green field

on the edge stands the forest

dark unknown unreachable

somehow in all the years i’ve been there

i never been to that forest

it felt like the edge of the universe

we all were kids of poverty and emotional distancing

we were sick and there were no one to cure us

except for raspberry jam

and buckwheat honey

days have passed

there would never be same kids

of same mothers

of same fathers.

there would never be same words

and same songs behind them

live once

die once

we all were kids

once

and never again

я обернулся и заметил,

что меня больше нет.

обветшавшие воспоминания,

как белые простыни на ветру.

меня, того, кто был,

больше не будет снова.

я умер, закостенев,

в яшме вчерашних дней.

если бы мы только

были чем-то большим,

чем звучание наших имён.

it’s so easy to betray one’s self. i’m afraid that i did it too often. so often that now only dull numbness is left.

i’m scared.. to ask a question..

have i ever existed?

…not as a synergy of my surroundings, but as my own separate self.

have i ever been here ?..

constantly feeling anxious about losing myself.

“…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…?”

“…—hey, pilgrim, where hold you your way?”

The hooded figure grinned, gem-like eyes flickering with emerald light amid the candlelit haze. The city lights softly illuminated the intricate ornamentation of the hood—beads and shells woven into symbols of distant highland shrines. They seemed to whisper in unknown tongues, twisting with each sound, swirling around the glint of those grinning eyes.

A chill ran down my spine, not from fear, but from the excitement of a senile wanderer, ever hungry for new encounters.

I smiled, without a trace of malice.

“—may my path cross yours with fortune, stranger… but why meddle in matters that do not concern you?”

The hooded figure’s grin widened, eyes glinting like polished emeralds.

“—ah, but perhaps it is the very nature of my kind to meddle, pilgrim. For what else are we but seekers of stories not our own?”

voice, low and raspy, carried a weight similar to language of the ancient when every word had a meaning either of spell or a song.

“—and what stories do you seek here?”

I asked, more curious than cautious.

golden glitter

on a black silk dress,

and an ivory pendant

on her ebony chest.

that’s an autumn night

flows gently

through the mountain chains.

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..”

quote from here

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 ?

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.