le piaf


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A words trier, a stormy sea sailor, a jazz lover, a painting admirer, a poetry parser, a gig addict, a scent seeker, a harmony balancer. Or perhaps, a philanthropy practitioner, a knowledge seeker, a common grounds searcher, a truth resolver. Otherwise, tiny and frail creature who lives in deeds, not years. In thoughts, not breaths. In feelings, not in figures on a dial. And who also counts time by heartthrobs. Because most lives who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best.

Thursday, January 21, 2010


This letter is for the emptiness, for loosing the fullness. This letter is for the tear of the heart, for its ripping apart. This letter is for the dismemberment of life; for the slow, everyday dying; for the nice, subtle destruction of wishes; for the extinction of the illusions; for those little deaths that happen to us with someone’s departure. This letter is for those things that we will never find out about, in which, I suppose lies the whole point of our existence. This letter is for finding the meaning of the perpetual reaffirmation of the meaninglessness. This letter is be/cause of my caprices. This letter is for the final answer to the eternal dilemma: To be or not to be, to speak or to hold the peace forever?

The choice is this.

All these days and weeks, since the war has started, our war, private one, without any rest to exhaustion, until the last breath, until redemption with that little healthy inside that has knocked us down in the life, I am sitting, stiffed, disintegrated staring in the same angle of my room, near the clock wondering: What, what has actually happened? How did we end up here, to this substantial negation of our values, to this meaninglessness, to this final denial of human matter, from the absolute object?! Is there a crumb of hope that once, at least sometimes, we will find out, will understand: Why, why this at all?

Time heals everything, they say.

Now, the wound, is of course fresh, the pain unexamined, the absence so real, that in fact resembles presence.

The Corner is, of course empty, except for a couple of cobweb strings, moving against the cold, invisible airwaves – empty like myself in fact, not counting the last couple of live(lines) strings, that are thorn and trembling, while my soul is uplifted in the heights of the thick darkness.

The Clock is, of course unscrupulously precise, its small needle with penetrating sound vigorously rushing through the round, the middle one – slowly counting the next minute, with the circle closed – by the biggest. Only that, the counter, tells me that I am deeply into another quiet wintry night. In another, very ordinary January night.

Me, I am of course, convinced that the counting has concluded a pact with the devil and decided to run over me. The silence and the clock-ticking are not the ones that scare me – but what comes after; the inevitability of the choice, the inability for change, the undefiability of the time, the order of the things in the space.




Untime (Storm).

I am cold.

I am warm.

I am sweating.

I am shivering.

I am crying.

I am laughing.



I have never talked to you about my frustrations, fears, unrest, worries, dilemmas, joys, moods. For the everyday ups and downs. For the efforts I was making to make our friendship work. For the border wall to which we can drag the other into the existence of the other. For the rage that you have been causing inside of me, with some, for you minor, unimportant things. For the smiles that I had on my lips, again because of some of your words. For the good days, again because of some gesture of yours. For the bad days, again because of some misunderstanding we have had. For the fact that I have started to believe again in the eternal cliché that Life is beautiful. For the feeling of safety that you have never implanted in me for which I have often rejected you.

I was continuously persuading myself that I would never manage to explain my emotions well enough. Or, that the attempt will be a futile one, so you will not understand. That’s why I was hiding them deep under my cold shield, necessary shell for my inner self. That is how I have been disarming the unhappiness. And, still, I am not sure whom (more) I have tried to protect. Me. Or you.

Now, that I am completely unloaded from its outcome, maybe I would be successful at doing it, in the right way. Even now, I don’t know why I’m doing this. Probably more for myself, less for you. I want to say this, even, if it does not lead anywhere. Give it any explanation, label it any way you want, I don’t care.

The illness, my illness (no matter how much we, you and me, want to neglect and minimize it, was always here, with us, between us) awakens extreme feelings; cruel logic, but hyper-sensitivity at the same time; numbness, but hyper-sharp senses at the same time; rejection of charity, but need for extra attention at the same time; lack of desire for communication (with anyone) but an extra need for additional attention; borderline patience, when some evil has to happen, but enormous impatience when something good has to happen; systoles but also diastoles; weakness, but also power; durability but also vulnerability; superiority but also inferiority with regard to the crowd…

I don’t know how much it (the illness) is me, how much I am – me, without it, but I know that the thing because of which the war has started, our war, certainly it wasn’t it – it was me. And – you. And the moment when I realized that our living criteria are so opposite, to annihilate each other. It was that Saturday, when you were busy. Before that, when something like that crossed my mind, I blamed myself for being stupidly paranoid, scolding myself that my short-sighted mind cannot be reached by the secret meanings of your messages, I was justifying you with the quasi-argument that promises are for sometimes to be broken, when there is not enough time… But, no. Time is always enough when you want to have time for the one that means eternally lot!

In that moment, I realized that words are used to say anything, simply – they don’t exist, are not invented yet. I did not know how such turning point becomes, what exactly is broken, where the words disappear. I only knew that there is no single word that can be sufficient substitute to project the thoughts. It was clear to me that it is about a difference in the concept, of the context, in the basis of understanding things, in the essence, in the code that makes us what we are, i.e. what we are not, in that essential substance, called meaning. That night, with confidence I confirmed that in fact, you have never actually understood me. Although I have always understood you. That the worlds are bypassing, passing without meeting each other. Completely. I have never understood (probably I never will?!) the need (your need or whatever it is!) with such a coziness to say words, strong words, to give promises, firm promises, behind which there is no sound backup. And not to stand up for them.

I have discovered that the further a person goes, the less it feels the need for any re/construction of the worlds; that people are just un/people, the world just a world, clean and clear in its awful repulsion.

The thing that I have really realized that night, was an overview of a lightness with which we can cross any limit within ourselves; the good to be turned into evil, the calm acceptance to turn into wild rage, the trust into suspicion.

And here, the words cannot do anything.

The rage has ripen in me, I could clearly see it; rage, cruel in its unpredictability; rage that has risen from the powerlessness that anything can be done, from the realization that the facts have to be accepted as such.

When the things have started to go down, they have to get broken, I thought. Law of Nature. Life becomes frighteningly simple in those moments, so simple that I always have asked myself what has been the purpose of the whole complexity that had preceded it, why the whole carefulness and hesitation, why withdrawing, when the fall-down is always so easy, so steep, and freed from any uncertainty.

Only then I have lost the control; when I had to shut up, I could not stop. I became accomplice of the power of words, I have knitted a language in the stars, have remembered the masterpieces that have transformed the humanity, that have cut through time and space, I have suffocated in my sentences, I was indecent, mean.


That is how, I was disembarked from life. Me, who is not capable to climb down the stairs, in order to save myself, have come down from life. Stair by stair. And every stair was taken willingly. Every step was one wish that I have given up. That is not craziness, my friend. We are not crazy if we find a way to rescue ourselves. That has nothing to do with craziness. That is cunningness. Geometry. Perfection. Hand craft. Work with a chisel. Masterpiece. I could have lived as well, but…I have taken away my life from my wishes.

And have cast a spell on them.

And when you got up, it was not only you that have left, but all of my friends of my life. All the people in the world have left. The land, which was mine, somewhere, at another end of the world, I have casted a spell over, listening to a wonderful singing of one man, that came out of nowhere. I have listened to him and watched him, and when that beggar stopped singing, my land has also disappeared, forever, wherever it was. The friends that I loved, I have casted a spell over them as well, listening to the melody of the beggar. In the expression on your face, in your eyes, I have seen all, all my beloved friends, and when you left – they have all gone with you.

I have said goodbye to miracles, when I saw how the war is destroying people in the midst of their laughter. I have said goodbye to the music, to my music, the day when I have managed to play it all in a single tone that lasted for a split of a second. I have said goodbye to happiness, casting a spell on it, when I saw you leaving. That is not craziness my friend. That is handcraft.

And, finally, I have disarmed the unhappiness. I have separated my life from my wishes.

If you could follow my road, you could see them, one behind another, spelled, casted, static, stopped forever, to show the way of this strange journey, for which I have never ever to anyone, except you, have told about.




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