вторник, 18 юни 2013 г.

The dead of night

I believe the Moon sees a lot more than the Sun does.

She sees the world when it is most unreal, and most real. It sees people as they stand, stripped of all makeup, naked, in their homes. It sees their love-making, the violent fights, the silent murders, the awful, painful conversations, the silent anguish. It hears the slow mumbles of those, who barely fall into  a nightmarish sleep, the rambles of people, which they only speak to themselves. It knows every secret. It knows, when the lovers' knock on the unfaithful ones' doors. It sees the runaway rebels, it watches over the contemplating midnight walkers.

She also sees the fashion parades of the extravagant party-goers. It sees the mindless fucking of the drunken who barely know each others names. It sees people when they wear the most makeup and the clothes they would never wear in front of their mothers - those looks, we only put on when we know no one will be watching us closely, the looks which show who we truly dream of being were we to become worthy of a pedestal. The Moon hears howls of pleasure, screams of drugged horrors, the crying of the lonely dumped damsel.

The darkness of night makes us put no show on, it brings out all the dark sides, we try to evade in the garish sunlight, it shows us that when there is no sunshine, no false pretense of happiness is needed. It is the time of passion, the time for emotions, for writing, saying, mumbling, moaning, crying out nonsense. It offers a cover, a blanket, beneath which we can unravel. Where we feel safe to bring out all the things we try to hide during the day. It brings out the transvestites of both sexuality and mind. The secret double-life outsiders of mind, who, during the day pretend to be completely average, and during the night unleash their madness in a night club or strip club, or simply in front of their own self. The dark passenger. Its a relief for everyone to be free.

Because night truly is the time for freedom.

And it is this freedom, which The Moon sees. This genuinety, which we would never allow ourselves in the light, The Moon sees. And it accepts it. It accepts the werewolf, and the transvestite, the cries, the moans, the pain, the pleasure, the alcohol, the love, the hate, the fear, the courage to be yourself.

I wish, for my own sake, that one day, we would allow the light of day to see what, for now, we only allow for the moon's silent, glowing, understanding eyes. I wish, that one day, we would be free.

сряда, 20 март 2013 г.


I know now that whatever Universe I had been born in, whatever age, world, race, sex, I would have loved the same people. I would have loved them more deeply than I could ever love myself. Whether I met them or not, my being would have been attached, attuned to the very same beings I love and will love now, here. Beings, I have probably loved in a different world, a different story, and will love again in the next one.  The friend, the parent, the lover, the mentor, the love that happens so rarely, most of us believe it doesn't exist at all, including I. But now I know.

We search for these people. We feel, throughout our life as if we are running. Fleeing from some great horror, and in a way we are - we are fleeing from the terrifying idea of being left alone. But more importantly, we are running towards the people we are already bound to love, looking for them through the vast sea of others. These are not many, but a few. Several people in this world that we feel as if we have known for millenniums from the first second we lay eyes upon them. People, you know you can't live without. Today, perhaps you have met one. Or perhaps not yet. Some never meet them in a lifetime. But you still love them. You love them and are bound to them without realizing it. And, no matter what they do, who they are, or become, who you are, you will love them, you will look through every valley and mountain top and deep sea cave and cloud and road for them, because they shape you, they complete you, they are you.

"We are bound to others, past and present. And by each crime, and every kindness, we birth our future."

понеделник, 25 февруари 2013 г.

Когато съм тъжна отивам при книги. Търся огромни библиотеки, книжарници, малки антиквариати и сергийки или прсото се качвам на тавана. Не търся нищо, просто отивам при книгите, както анонимните алкохолици отиват при групи за подкрепа. Не купувам нищо, отварям десет-двайсет книги, но минавам през всеки рафт, оглеждам всяка полица, прочитам всяка корица, все едно, че търся лицето на приятел в тълпата. Всяко заглавие, както всяко лице, разказва история, шепне имената на героите си и рисува картини на времето си. Разказва и за автора - какво е мислил, какво го е вълнвало? Какво ли е търсел? Какво е виждал пред себе си, докато е пишел заглавие от типа на “Пътеводител на галактическия стопаджия” или “Да убиеш присмехулник”? От какво е бягал?
Пишем, за да избягаме от света си или пък, за да излеем света си пред себе си и да замлъкнем, молейки се светът да замлъкне с нас. Ние и затова четем. Пишем, за да бягаме и бягаме, за да четем. Иска ни се да накараме героите си да страдат като нас, да обичат като нас, да се смеят, когато не можем и да плачат, когато не можем повече. Иска ни се и да се смеем с нечии чужд герой, той да плаче вместо нас, да извършва приключения вместо нас, да спасява себе си и другите вместо нас, да е супергерой, когато не можем, но и да е истински. А тъжното е, че ние сме най-истински в измисления свят и най-фалшиви в собствения си живот. И когато истинските емоции ни залеят и не можем повече да играем фарса на живота си, бягаме при книгите, които ни напомнят какви сме наистина и какви искаме да бъдем. Къде се размива границата между фикция и реалност? Между двете корици на затворената книга. Там, където се побира един живот, един век, една ера, един свят, една галактика, милиард вселени, трилион герои.
Та, да - на ей такива мисли ме навеждат книгите. Пък и понякога срещам разни прекрасни екземпляри като например Dickens ‘A Tale of Two Cities’ от 1916 за 5лв. Кеф.