sorry seems to be...

Before excitement turns to boredom there’s the unique and sometimes indescribable first time.
What about daily first times?
I’ve been ignoring them for the last couple of days.
I’ve missed the points that mattered and pillowed my disturbed head on fluffy misconceptions.
I’ve been swimming waters of delusion and feared drowning in sorrow while standing on the shore.
My mid days have struggled to turn into midnights just as I struggled to turn off the light before going bed – darkness makes me shiver with fear.
I’ve been floating on the bottom of my deepest fears counting my slow motion breaths.
I’ve been laying on the downside of the down side facing an ice cold floor that my breath heated with exhalations.
I’ve been wrong to trade daily first-time-green-smiles for no-reason-pathetically-sad hours.
I’ve been wrong not to reply to kindness with kisses and hugs of infinite strength.
I’ve been wrong to have been wrong when you were right all along.

short time memory of a dream frame

inside the mesmerizing control of life I found a letter filled with chaotically drawn letters.
while I was staring at this strange lettered sudoku, words started catching shape and form and even creeped their way into complete sentences.
the subject was always somebody else while I was the object.
so I let the letter be and turned to the principle: time is a well shaping artist that provides sense with time.
and it did.
I reopened the letter some years later.
all the letters were there.
only this time they were driving sentences like racing pilots drive their winning cars.
the verbs were missing, but this time I was both subject and object.
I had failed where sense and actions were concerned, but at least I knew it was about me.
I folded the letter carefully so I wouldn't get any paper cuts.
I sat down and confronted my conscience and for the first time it was scared of what i might think.
I didn't have much to say, though:
I'm not judgmental: I like green.

are you righteous?

accustomed proximity makes terrible misconceptions raise from the grounds and turn into shady mists of delusion. the moment you say: go!, it goes on to lengths you had only dreamed of in your worst dreams to date. the mistake of running barefoot on a race track where the partner runner is literally a stud can turn into an unfortunate accident with blistered repercussions. but you can't complain because you yourself have signed up for the race and claimed to be able to keep up pace or at least to try. the advantage of running within a team is reliability. but when the team is a gang and the rules that apply to the street are brought on the field the story turns into a run or let run one. considerable changes have been applied to this model, all of them being gathered experiences from previous races that have been carefully studied and schemed on the board, just to make sure no one would repeat them again. the coach was awfully wrong, though, when you run you need both speed and attention. being fast is unfortunately not enough.

temporary profanity

it dawned on the night that the cold and bloody light of day were close. and so was the inevitable. the smoky smell predicted the end of the centuries and all hearts were trembling accordingly. no one was speaking. all you could hear were breaths: heavy old ones, young excited ones, womanly gasping with amazement ones, even restricted held up breaths, but no words at all. and this was a first for the small bar on Tavelina Street where noise used to rattle on in neverending swirls of prating. this time there was no need for the usual. the day of the prophecy had arrived. he was going to appear. the greatest warrior of all, the one that turned ears into heavy transporters of imagination and hearts into bleeding vessels of passion, was going to be embodied as predicted into the last song on earth

when you draw the line...

...you get to the bottom of things. hence the expression: bottom line. my lines have never been too straight simply because i can't draw. i'm good with colors, but not at drawing. eh. good thing my life doesn't depend on it. actually, my life doesn't depend on anything other than myself and that's refreshing. but most of the times i've been quite hornswoggle. every time i tried to verbalize what went on underneath i failed like a shaking fore finger on a steady trigger. i guess this was because the supposed victim was not craving for my bullets. nor were they supposed to receive them. i ended up shooting blanks. funny enough they ended up hurt. even bleeding. somehow life has a bizarre way of making things even. so there's no point in crying over spilt bullets. as for trust, it seems to be functioning on the exact same principles as the liver: it's vital for any kind of interaction and lucky for us, if damaged, it grows back in the proper environment.

tender transparency

her head was swimming in flummadiddling thoughts. dead? how could i be dead when i'm aware of my own blink? her subjective angle caught glimpse of the running water. my blinks are joining the tap water drips: blink, drip, blink, drip... cute tune. she braced herself internally: no, no. death is way off in an opposite galaxy than i am right now. rumours are rumours and i rise above them as always. she picked herself off the floor and lifted the dropped dead purse, opened it and took out a piece of paper and a pen and started scribbling something. as the words unravelled from her pen, the white paper's reflection shed light on her face that unraveled a slight smile, but a smile nonetheless. i'd rather smile my cries as a method of giving them credit. yeah. i'm a smiling crier. because i seem to suffer from pain asymbolia anyway.
she finished writing the note, took out a pair of cuticle-scissors and nailed (or scissored would be more appropriate) the note to the bathroom door. it was her unsuicide note. it was her ticket out of the confusion. it was her old self self-awaring itself.
what she wrote on that note was actually one word. but she had used only the good letters to write it. care to guess what it was?

corrosive confusion

the girl's palms are sweaty. she's feeling the anxiousness of the inevitable-about-to-happen: she's about to let them down. her eyes are not moist. more like sad. she's desperately looking for a reason to put on the table and make at least a part of what she's feeling about herself, real. but there's nothing around to reach for. she reaches for her purse, but it's so heavy as if it's filled with millions of razorblades that would slash her skin open if she looked inside. she drops it on the floor. her heart is pounding and the purse is falling in the slowest motion possible. it refuses to touch ground. she gasps. the purse is in the air. she hits it with her right foot, but it's like hitting an invisible rubber deck. she looks out the window and back at the purse: it lays dead on the floor. even gravity is making its point. she puts her palms together. they smell like failure and feel like ice. she blows them hot hoping to melt them. the only thing that seems to melt is her reason. she takes out her phone and starts texting: i've been.. (too obvious) - she deletes it. puts the phone on the sink. the tap is running. now there's a purpose, a way and a means - all reaching the same goal: function. hard concept for a dysfunctional girl. she looks in the mirror. this pair of green eyes staring back at her are not hers. the mirror liquefies together with that image. her heart is a prisoner screaming behind rib bars. her pain is dumb, but she can hear it. the rumors are true: she's dead.