___

poetry is the raw substance of life. and not prose.

again and again.

january for somewhat juvenile hope. for bits of crunchy snow and prickly wind on my face. for scent of future.

caramel cake goes best with milk. I decided while reading murakami. and something in this decision was so liberating and empowering that I got just a little bit merrier.

that when I long for words of true consolation, they never come from the people I would like to hear them from?
that a good-meant concern slightly irritates and discourages?
all aspirations seem fake and grotesque and silence embraces the words

all those words that will never leave my head...never will spill out in wholesome sentences on paper or lcd.

at some point, when I'm old enough to not to be hurt and embarassed by it, I might well consider putting it into a fictional writing of some sort. but until then - it will remain a hobble of flashbacks and semihealed sensations.

green and chrunchy. something I miss these days. fresh and unobtrusive. and healthy, mind you! not many things are all this. but then, not many things are spinach.
someday it will dawn all fresh and birch tree will have small leaves, like many tiny spinach sprouts. and I will be looking out of the window and saying: yes, now it is green.

and the truth is ever so evasive...

guess there's no certain way of doing that. just some empty moments when you reach out your fingertips towards each other through the windows of bypassing trains. this elusive touch sparkles with golden sunsets of times long gone and as you pull back your frost biten hand, you see that current sunsets are no longer yours, not belonging to both of you. you see that the linearity is cyclic - daughter becomes her mother, patterns repeat.
but the beauty of my sunset is not lessened... it's different. it's my own. and I guess it's only natural that there is a tint of sadness that I cannot share it with a person that has become someone else.

how often does one muse about falling through the floor while standing under the shower? I have recently. not literally of course. but when I put my heels together and stand up straight, I feel the floor pressing against my soles. if at that moment I look up in the muddy light of the weak bulb hidden among the rags of once-white paint on the ceiling, I get a bit dizzy, like in a caroussel and feel that I actually might faal through after all. through four floors, like a diver in the pool. or like miss alice through the infamous rabbit hole. only I doubt the potential of my adventures in the dorm basement.

nonsense

the sallow light evaporates in the steam and it almost feels like bathing in curdled lemon juice. the tiles get sticky and stinky. and whatever erotic fantasies involving shower one might have, they all fade in the dull light of the tiny, lemon like bulb in this room with an empty shampoo bottle and a tuft of hair (that is most certainly not ones own) somewhere between the wall and the partition. the tiles are sweaty, and it's time for me to brush my heated skin with the towel and get somewhat dressed.

it's a new day