Okledia

Does it all depend on you? Are possibilities indefinitely numerous? Who is able to answer questions?

Feeling useless.

Stuck. Then you feel. Then you run.

Stuck. In your own reality. No marks of shadows in the light. No vigilance. You don't see it. You don't get me. It's painful afterwards. Before the weakness. After the inhumanity. Exagгerating? No sound. Or sound of suffocation. Believe me, there is more to it than this. I don't see the blue of it. Freedom. Or end of light. Rest. Emptiness.

Her impossible thinking grabbed everything she had, evereythig she was and smashed it to pieces. Broken glass. The horror of the absurdity. Her sight, her smell, her hearing, her taste, her touch, her respiration - they were so superficial all of a sudden. The burden she bore, this dark obssessive groing abyss her own heart contained... she couldn't believe this was happening. Questionning every single idea she had, every cell that constructed her body, every thought that crossed her mind. Who was she? She was no one. She had always known it, she had always felt it. She felt this unstoppable submersive emotion of non sense and surplus. She was not needed. The world was simply spitting her out. "The Gorgeous Truth was not aware of the deep sensation she caused me. She is not aware how important her words wereto me. The Gorgeous Truth is not aware she is my life" - she thought. And sighed. No relief accompanied her sigh. "The only exit is my own abyss." - she thought - "I do not have the right to be weak anymore. It should just stop. You are my only exit. But you are even emptier than I am. You are the beginning and the end. You just are."

Страницата беше се отворила, стресната от нерешителност.

Дълбаещи, потръпващи във унес букви размекваха

На всяка крачка, всеки дъх, в съмнение и мнителност,

Медно-масления вкус на спомените на смеха.

Редовете, леещи се в реки от златно и горчиво,

Разказващи историите на феерия от ухания на тръпкав вкус,

Отмиваха бликащи разкази на колебливост:

Грейпфрутените болки, редуващи се с шоколадов мус.

И щеше медената приказка може би да се разкаже,

В танците на мелодично-захарни отблясъци и ароматен прах.

Ала сметановият унес принуден бе да се откаже,

От мечтите си за боровинкови усмивки и какаов смях.

Иронията винаги примесена е с дъх на мента и коприна,

И ражда болка, пронизваща меки, маслени сърца.

Даряваща рецептата дари последната си капка сила,

За да подпише с кръв и да затвори най-вкусната, Отровна страница.

10.08.2010