~ merry christmas, mr ~

the face of david. a head of moony, desaturated gold. over the surface of sand. a white moth landing on an eyebrow. stay.

you are the victim of men who think that they're right

hara-san.

merry christmas. quite reversely, as the last hours have taken away the only day of this year that i've beem waiting for. a story for which my heart thirsts. a feeling of haven, even if temporary. quite ironically, because the christmas was snowless, and now it's snowing over the roofs of oslo. gentle snowflakes, falling in peace, free from haste, making me believe that falling can be a flight, sometimes. i raise my blick over the screen, glimpse into the window. across the street - a lamplit office. a man working overtime, all eyes on his computer. a governmental departement. a man that has never cried. never from his very core.

flicker, do you know. there are tears so hot that they never reach the ground

space is only noise, if you can see

but will there be an echo

~ thousand knives ~

so that day everything was going differently than it should, not necessarily wrong - just not as imagined. left home halfway through kafka on the shore, completely unaware that it would become a part of yet another sign the very same day. i walked to the opera, picked my tickets, went out. the weather got an-hour-to-apocalypse, i breathed out and filled my lungs with relief, a kind of peace i can only find there - standing at the opera house and inhaling the sea.
the sky was leaden, a storm sure to follow very soon. the leftovers of the new york hurricane approaching oslo with a mad wind as their herald. i stood at the edge, gazed at the waves breaking against the white stone, then at my coat, The Rag, thrown in all possible directions by the insane gusts, just like my hair. that moment i realized - standing completely in black, with The Rag almost torn in the raging, cold air, surrounded by this powerful white building, for a while i've become a part of murakami's novel. the girl named crow. kafka on the shore.

crow on the shore
caw caw
kra kra
(as it would scream in polish)

as for the picture, i got totally stuck with it, the sketch lying open and abandoned on the floor day after day, mute, and my thoughts around it, numerous songs i filled it with. and then i moved out, moved in, moved out and moved in again and right away when i sat peacefully down in the sofa and played the song, it's suddenly become clear: the picture needed this apartment, its high ceiling, long windows, white floor, its all whiteness filled with just these sounds, to be finished. and so it is.

kra kra
(do you hear the rip?)

~ forbidden colours ~

david. what would you tell me now.
my love wears forbidden colours too.
my life believes.

it tears me, how do you survive
these things that fall on your open heart as may raindrops and turn into rusty spikes a moment before they reach its membrane

how did you embrace the darkness thrown upon you

while doubting the very ground beneath me
trying to show unquestioning faith in everything

i dream of good hands.
a good wrist to carry the kite only onto the warm winds.
good hands that would change all shed tears into sweet water.

i trust the future, i love, and i keep my eyes only on truth, still.
that's why it hurts double.

when four years ago i set as my life quest feeling and experiencing as broadly and deeply as it is possible and training myself in perception and lucidity, i forgot to make an annex there should be a balance between the light and the shadow.
now - it's only to be brave.
stones thrown.

~ non-citizen (i won't be disappointed) ~

how do you call a being that would always grow back its wings to feed on them, in the absence of unpolluted nourishment?

i have nothing to say.
this sounds. painfully exact. musical portrait updated.
my skin is motionless. like a membrane of a drum abandoned by its spirit and left with an overactive echo.

it's not safe