The ride

Like I always say, there is more to dreams than their mystery and intangibility. And I don’t have in mind only dreaming that happens whilst sleeping, or dreaming in a sense of wishing for something to happen. I mean more substantial kind of dreaming that comes to you only rarely which is of course likely to reflect your desire, but at the same time it is so elaborate that it brings new ideas, new desires, new feelings, ones you have never ever known before. Something like a daydream or an epiphany, just like that – out of the blue. The kind of dream, that in the end ceases to be a dream and becomes a vision or a fantasy. And in this fantasy you are able to smell all the scents so vividly it is hard to believe it didn’t happen, you are able to hear people and their voices just as though they were standing right in front of you, you can even predict your own thoughts and actions as well as the others’, and you are actually able to feel all the sensations and affections, almost as if you lived them. Last but not least, you can enter into fantasies with your consciousness, you can decide what happens next and that is what makes them real. 

I can hear the rumbling of the engine melting with the music from the radio and I am holding my hands up high, stroking the air, touching it with my fingerprints. With my eyes closed I feel like I’m absorbing everything deep into myself. When I look to my left there is the man I ran off with and he looks beautiful in the sunshine. Before us only the dusty road, fields, and hills, and woods, and rivers, and lakes. We feel to have nothing, but in fact we have absolutely everything.
At the nightfall, we watch the stars and he talks about the universe. He asks me to imagine infinity, to picture it as a concept, to try to think in terms of infinity. I answer I cannot do it, because it’s simply ungraspable. He smiles and says: “You can’t understand infinity for it is just a word. A word created by men labelling an abstract phenomenon. And all the words of language denoting abstract things, such as love, fear, shiver, excitement, frienship... can never be understood unless experienced. Humans in their very nature always needed limits, borderlines, so they started to think in this mindset. But you have to start thinking out of these borders, so that you set your mind and soul free to experience infinity. That’s why I took you on a ride. To search for infinity.“ 

The Ride

At dawn we’ll be gone, drifted by tide

Forsaken our throne, ran away for a ride.

A car beneath humming its tranquil song

All the gods, above and under, singing along. 

Pure nihility around, away from the crowds, 

With my hands up high I long for the clouds.

You said aim your eyes up, you break the mould,

And as far you can see all is blue, white and gold.

The sun is our God, every new day our teacher,

Horizon means hope and your voice is my preacher.

Nothing more nothing less than our bodies bare,

Yet we possess the scents, the life, the music, the air.

Our soundtrack of life sings the melody of freedom

That takes us far and far away, east of eden.

Oh how gracefully your skin shines in the sunshine,

You’re my guide through the galaxy, a man divine.

You show me infinity is no design of men

Like two of the zillion stars we live by no plan, 

As vain as to describe colors to a blind one

Such is to live by limits, when there are none.

Only rumbling of wheels, as promising as a wish,

The road, the dust and a mind young and foolish,

Are tools to turn us to what we’re supposed to be.

And if we weren’t fools then who’d we be? 

Home is where you lay your head

I will never forget those eyes. The guy was standing at the rear of the tram and all of the people knew right away that a homeless person just entered the tram judging from a distinctive smell. It was Saturday two in the morning and most of the people there were traveling home from a party. Quite close to this man, there was a bunch of drunk guys starting to have a go at him, calling him names, shouting at him and all sorts of stuff. All the people in the tram were covering their noses and commenting on him which encouraged these guys who started to attack him. This homeless guy was what you would call a poor thing. It was exceptionally cold January night and he was shivering, silently standing there with his shoulders down, folded arms in front of him as if in a desperate defence. All of a sudden all the tram was supporting the bunch of guys who demanded him to get out of the tram, scolding him and poking him out. Four girls, myself being one of them, defended him, trying to compel the guys to leave him alone and just bear with the smell somehow. No use of course. At the next stop the driver came out of his cabin, came to the guy and pushed him vioently out of the tram, swearing and humiliating him in front of all those people. I was looking at the man all the time, right into his face. He wasn’t old at all, must have been in his late thirties, long black hair, dirty face, but his eyes were sparkling. Sparkling with sadness and humiliation. Like a dog’s eyes. A stray dog wandering through streets silently asking for any help, and if that weren’t possible, at least for a nice word. A hand that would not beat, a word that would not scold, a gaze that would not despise. The man didn’t utter a word during all this. He surrendered to the dominance of us all, of us who know nothing about him, about his ordeal, about his misfortune.  

A month ago I was walking down a crowded shopping street. There was a man sitting in front of a closed down shop with his dog. First I passed by him but after 20 metres something’s drawn me back. I searched my pockets for some pennies and approached him, leaning down towards him with my arm reaching out. When he noticed this he looked at my hand, startled and frightened and then his eyes met with mine, still scared for a fraction of second for he didn’t know what I was up to. But then when he had seen me, petite little girl, he relaxed. He knew I was no danger. I handed him the change and stroked his dog for a little while, he thanked me and off I went. But I will never forget those eyes. Those were the eyes of a vulnerable creature, who for a second or two thought I was about to hurt him.

Living on a street must be a tough job. People are pointing their fingers, scolding, scorning. Those who know nothing about how hard it is to be alone, pennyless, not having a bare necessities to live a decent life, judge them, act like they know better, say they are just a bunch of lazy good-for-nothings who rather than stand up and going to work drink cheap wine all day and beg for money from those who honestly and deservedly earn money in a normal job. 

But is it us who have the right to judge them? Have we ever walked in their shoes?
I don’t think it is so easy to stand up strong and self-conscious, determined to start over after all they lived through. People bring them down, humiliate them to the very bottom of human dignity, until they cease to be able not only to look into other people’s eyes, but nor into their own. Have you ever noticed this? They almost never keep an eye contact with anybody passing by. They protect themselves from all those judgmental and detesting eyes which look at them as though they were an insect, a plague, something that needs to be got rid of. No surprise then they like dogs as their companions. They never judge, they never hate. 

Found what I've been looking for

I hate it when I’m looking for something and I can’t find it.
More especially when that ‘something’ is myself...

Good old Nietzsche said that person’s mental development ends with his or her death. There is no stage where you can say: this is it, I’m complete, I can’t learn any more. And I can’t agree more. There are way too many different stimuli all around for our mind to ignore them, and even the most ignorant person is affected by them. Whether in a good or bad way. If you could record a human mind in a time-lapse it would probably go only two ways: either it would bloom or fade like a flower. There certainly is a flower inside you. Not even a biology textbook could name all the kinds of flora we are made of, nor any binomial nomenclature could label what sort of plant there is in your core. Either a beautiful white lily, pure orchid, passionate rose, a dry succulent, thorny bush, an evergreen, or a wild weed, all these plants have a thing in common: they need to be nourished to grow. When they lack the necessities to survive they decay gradually, until they fade. There is no guide, no tips, no tricks how to take care of your flower. Only you know what it needs. And if you don't happen to know, you need to find out. As soon as possible, because you never know when it might be too late. 

I was restless, defiant, sometimes agressive. Didn’t quite know where it springs, why do I feel this uncomfortable in my own self? Everyone was wrong, everyone opposed me and I didnt’t get why. I thought the problem is with the others, it definitely can’t be me. My thoughts didn’t change, until I had started to clean my own closet, started from the zero point, I got back to the very basics and began my psycho-hygiene. I went through stages - denial, bargaining... to acceptance. I finally reconciled and signed an imaginary peace treaty with myself and my optics have changed. It suddenly set all things in motion, like a domino effect. The relationships started to make sense. The friendships worth it were strengthened and the ones that did not bring any pleasure were eliminated. My loving family became more loving, not that they had started to love me more, only I started to be able to receive their love and give it back in full measure. I ceased to care about the less loving part of my family and concluded that pretense is a waste of time. I came to understand my lovely boy, who has such a good heart that only an evenly good heart can appreciate. I found out that animals, like my friends, are dearest to me when alive and I found my balance. Balance inside and outside. I stopped tilting at windmills. And I discovered that if you’re missing something, you have to find it in yourself. Start with yourself. Maybe then you will find what you were failing to grasp and can pass it forward...

My flower is still just a bud, but since the sun is shining and I keep watering it regularly, I can already see colourful petals making their way through, determined to blossom.

It has been a long search and it took the better part of my life to find out how to keep my flora thriving. I finally found the essential. I found love. And that day I found it even the reflection in the mirror looked more beautiful. 

(Tracy and his Tiger)

The Search

A man or a girl in the name of Tracy,

Chased by a sandstorm all dark and hazy,

In this ominous dance must be a fighter

To find the one willing to shelter a tiger.

Seemingly endless such is this storm,

The time always drags just before dawn.

Awaiting a car that greets a hitch-hiker,

Who begets next morning to look brighter.

Someone who shows life could not be better.

The one who composes a song from a letter.

One who brings water when the thirst is great.

Who blurs the line between real and faith.

When all the words betray their meanings,

One will revive from the ashes of Phoenix.

A pair of headlights emerge from the mist

Beseeching two animals to coexist.

I wish in this voyage you were the driver,

Who in the end saves me and my tiger. 

Milo

She was standing on the shore, her shoes half soaked from the watery surface, looking absently at the island. The house was right in front of her, motionless and calm, as though she was looking at a painting instead of a real motif. Seeing this only reminded her that reality was not much of a factor there. Sometimes she did not even recall what the true meaning of the word was. And moreover, she wasn’t even sure, whether the reality was the stage she wanted to be in right now. 

There was no wind, not a single breeze, everything stuck still so deadly. She looked down at the water and saw reflection of her slender face in the mirror surface of the lake but she did not recognise it anymore. She did not want to. By the sole look at her own shapes she suddenly realised how perfectly they fit to the mortal environment she was part of. As she turned away from the water, she closed her eyes while listening to the lethal tranquility. So many questions circled around her head that she even felt them rambling through her brain. They were getting heavier each moment, causing so much pressure she couldn’t think straight no matter how hard she tried. However, her heart was posing the most importatnt question of all, the question that was inside her from the beginning of this destructive relationship. She wanted to cry it out loud, but all that went out of her dry mouth was a little whisper. As always, there was nothing but the silence answering her from the house. She was pondering over the last few months, wondering how on earth can she even stand on her own feet without collapsing to the soft ground.

Her shoes were now soaking wet and the gentle shiver she felt in her feet was the only motion she was able of. Maybe she should go there and end it for good, but maybe she was too weak to do so. And maybe, just maybe, she had a self-destructive obsession that did not allow her to finish it. Even though her face was pale, her figure skinnier than ever before, and thoughts darker than she had ever imagined, her eyes still radiated vitality. The childish curiosity in her dark blue gaze was resembling two bright lights burning in the distance at the godforsaken sea. Those eyes refuse to give up, they want to see how the story ends. What if there is a next chapter that will bring up an unexpected shift in the story line? What if everyone’s wrong? With that thought she suddenly managed to make a move, and as if there was a new strength coming through her body, she headed towards the bloody red house. 

Milo

Two keys crossing the devil’s chest

Like a wound on a pure white skin

Looking more real than all the rest,

This bloody red house stood still.

Somewhere between the Bermuda triangle

And the island of Atlantis

There was a cuckoo’s nest.

Amid the towns of Geilo and Gol

No house number, no address

Postmen don’t knock on his door,

Returned to sender all the letters.

Though the fish in the lake swam all away,

It attracts her like a magnet

And she is the opposite pole.

Rumour has it he’s a brute, a savage

So they say after the Sunday mass

If you stay here you avoid the damage

Girl, that bridge you should not pass.

But she became deaf to sounds and blind to colours

she only heard and saw

The churchbells announcing a marriage.

On the rainy morning on 13th of July

She wakes up to her dream,

Of the enemy becoming an ally

Who came her soul to redeem.

Been living amongst the dead for many years

And again since becoming a woman

She wants to feel alive.

Sneaks out in secret following her nose

Dressed in a pure white dress

Hasn’t told anyone where she goes,

Leaving behind all her mess.

Cannot wait til she meets the artist

Manic, imaginary, lethal, obedient

She took a love heroin, double dose.

The night when her feet touched his floor

Excited from head to her shoes,

Hasn’t noticed the paintings on the wall

For which she became a muse.

She ate his word one by one and

A few hours later found herself

Drowning in a glass of bordeaux.

Her body tangled with the body of his

Clenched in a cramp of desire and lust,

He made love to her with no compromises

The white dress is now covered in dust.

He was hungry for her like an animal

Getting more lively and strong

The more subtle and fragile she is.

Like a parasite that only can live

While the host body slowly decays

He took from her everything she could give

Sucked like a vampire all juice from her veins.

Like a lonely ship she’s searching for lights

He’s the Californian, guilty of crime

The Titanic will never forgive.

Next to him she was sleeping sound

Her mind obsessed with only one dream,

The nails of a girl scratching the ground

His barn in the backyard echoes with scream.

Red paint now dominates his palette

The brightest of colours straight from the heart

Turning her pain and devotion to art.

The morning was windy and dark

Breeze howling through the window.

As a souvenir there’s a love mark

And a black rose on a pillow.

But the bed is deserted

And she left an empty case

Only her eyes radiated like sparks.

Eyes were intrigued to see the story end

Her body with love shivered

Even the truth could hardly mend

What her dreams destroyed.

Was it just a dream? Maybe it was real...

What does being conscious mean?

To exist now equals to pretend.

On her last supper a la carte,

He served her with immortality.

This is your dream, come and take part-

Being unconscious challanges reality.

Poor poor girl now howls in the barn,

In the deepest fount of his black art,

Where she died of broken heart.