I haven't been really sober for a few days, drawing and looking out of the window, sleeping in weird times, days passing. Mind in my body, I can explore the present in context of the past and the future.
The context is so complex that it won't ever be in my powers to even try to explain to anyone. It is not a line of isolated events but rather an organism where everything affects everything. Random is not random, a scene, a moment is then reflected in the scope of so called greater picture.
I'd lied down in my bed if it was empty but I don't want to be watched and touched and worn. There's an intruder in the dollhouse.
What is the thing that is you, where does it start and where it ends, one drop of you dissolved in the sea that is me, what is it that is you, how do I see you, how do I touch you, do me a favor, become a shape, get yourself some borders, sublime from the ocean, it is my anyway.
The howl inside is silenced. There is nothing to distract you, there is nothing to hold on to, to make assumptions or to hope for, the great emptiness, hostility giving you the freedom to breathe without expectations, you are nothing in this great timeless nothingness, you mean nothing, for a second you just are.
So much has happened again, from the airport directly to 4th circle, cover your face he said, there's teargas, thousands of voices, body hurts, go to the front line, police won't touch girls. When we conquered, we danced. Then the sun arose and another day of fasting started.
Another day, another disappointment, unable to move forward, everything is so scary. I'm trying to find redemption but I don't see one. I know it's just for a second and tomorrow will be better, but what is it for, putting so much effort to search for reasons, there's no justification for the existence. Feeling better is fake, it's for nothing, just to survive till tomorrow, but what for, so you can eat and sleep and swim and pass the time till the next day comes to do it all over again, to work so you can pay your rent so other people can go on pretending like there's a point.
The drops of sweat on my back brought me back to consciousness from the sweet half sleep. I was delightnig in the heat for a second yet my first real thought was dedicated to you. Are you also lying on your back, soaked wet, drawn in your own sweat, like me right now? Is your skin also burning, making you restless and all itching, like mine right now? Are your eyes also dwelling in the empty space under your eyelids, blindly, like mine right now?.
Since the last day of summer I was waiting for the spring to come. I didn’t care about the mild sun of autumn and I completely dismissed the sparkly days when first snow covered my neighborhood. I didn’t hate it, I just passed it in a standby mode with my eyes filled with fresh sun on warm grass and scented breeze on soft blossoms.
Now I’m sitting in the park, first flies buzzing into my silence, sun turning my skin red and his head rests on my lap. I’m watching the drops of sweat on the soft hair of his armpits, thinking if I’ll remember the spicy smell of his. He’s telling me some story, I feel I should laugh, so I smile and take a picture of him. I like the curve of his chin. The film is finished and I’m curious how the frames gonna come up.
What you thinking about, he asks me. Not much, I reply, rolling the exposed film back. Just how the summer will turn out.