this evening i've been walking oliwa's narrow streets.
darkness. stillness. leafless trees. glittering pavements. black cat. rain.
face your fears and pierce the night
i was singing katatonia and david sylvian. then pink floyd.
soon i've realized. i looked around.
nobody.
no one living like in cortazar's novels. nobody wandering those alleys at night. just me. and the wind.
overwhelming loneliness and longing.
raindrops on my lips. and a smile. this strange one.
everytime i passed a lightlime, or a tree, i got this urge to embrace it, have a rest. at last. a utopia of laying down the weapons. a bliss of closing eyes, off guard. this lightness.
unreachable.
i let the eyelids fall cause it's another false sunrise - i feel the warmth but i can't see the light. or the other way round.
so... so you think you can tell
it's not so much thinking one can tell. it is not fearing one's impressions: art is a solitary act. i 'think' you prefer "longing" for an ideal rather than settling for less.
ReplyDeletebeautiful. poignant.
you couldn't be more right.
ReplyDeletethe only way out is the way up. the process of creating art itself is indeed a solitary act but for me everything surrounding it - the motivation, inspiration, a huge part of its final aim too, comes from the outside. and from the insides of others.
yes, there are some areas where even a relativist like me would never accept any compromise. but it means what exactly? a life-long insatiability?