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Title post title

Oh no, not this again.

I am slightly confused. as every day infused
with some delight of freedom and guru's notes
with some huge and small questions
on daily roads

I am there again standing and trembling
like a thin stem tree
and straightening my back to feel at ease

The life gets better after it passes
the taste becomes more intense when
looking at the turkeys' carcasses

The streams are strong - misbalancing
the bridges are submerged and all I have
to do is wade and sing. wing

I looked for the strength in someones voice
all I found was more than million and one choice
that made me more confused and there I sat
with my brains totally used
for no better reason than coming back to the start

Oh no, not this again.


to seep through the soles

there has been a hot steam pressure pushing me down for the last few days. horizontal became natural. and vertical became requiring too much effort.

then it poured.
condensed and fell down as the rain falls down the skies

water transformed into my essence and heat into my form.
opening chakras with smells of essential oils, mind with words of value and laying them down with lacework of boredom.

all rivers have an end, not all them beginning


statements back

"After careful calculations I've decided that percentage of the days when I am a mess is more than and average human being." 

But actually this is not true. As a statistic living person I like garlic as much as anyone else, sometimes I wear my woolen socks with summer shoes, though just inside, I drink a healthy amount of water and brush my teeth. I vacuum when it is necessary and I can concentrate on reading for 45 minutes. Buy flowers for myself and read out-loud for myself. I buy pack of chips and eat half of it on my way back home. I like watching people passing by and think how do they tie their shoe laces, I have somekinda schedule for the week but I really like to postpone things for a little but more. I check my social networks to see if someone gave a lousy appreciation like or a heart, or anything. Not like it matters a lot, but it becomes just one of those habits like social smoking or saying "mmm" when you eat a delicious meal. 

As a statistic person I am no much more special than no one else. And I am not weirder, or a bigger mess, or a genius, or a talent. And neither is anyone else. My belief in measurement scale of those things just evaporated and became non-existent. It is empowering to think that you are something more than others, but in the same time you could just believe that an onion is sweeter than sugar and you could be right, somebody had to make some sort of measure of sweetness. Llama with a turbano could be as good house pet as a pug, and to be honest way cuter, however it is how it is. 

And all I have to do is to take my statement of being a mess back. I am not. Just a little portion as well as anyone else. I suppose. 

I might take this one back as well, but not yet. 


Not Good Enough

it is quite a story when it comes to reminding yourself why. even nine whys can't sometimes trace back what was that was. 
and it is still easier to think of it as good enough. 

the label that would be without additives, no preservatives, no parabens or pharmaceutics just doesn't stick on all those experiences.
and when they are almost worn off - the skin just gets thicker and stamps everything with a simple 
"Not Good Enough"

some know how to rip those ambiguous labels quite fast. 
actually takes care of them and tries to nourish them unconsciously. at the same time putting themselves in these devastating situations close to such as hair loss or inconvenient rashes. 

i know it sounds simple enough. but it is quite hard to weight good | not good enough on a simple human scale. and what if you can't find an excuse to call it not good enough even though you drained the bottle years ago. 

does the label have an expiration date or just an experience?
sometimes i think that finding answers would make me even more puzzled
and it's all to the memory 

Stephen Wiltshire draws Manhattan skyline from memory


how much?

the measure of stability is not a measure of heaviness.

I've been counting my belongings. I lost the count twice or three times. I've tried to decide what to throw out but I sincerely believe that I am not good at throwing things, people or emotions out. Not even sure if I want to be good at that. So I keep the weight.

I tried to forgive and forget. Managed the forgive part but never accomplished to forget.

Tried to sell things to others, but maybe the attachment to it reduced the price without words. It became secretly "never ever possible to belong to others". Tried to give away and that worked out, however, every time I met my belonging it would look to my eyes and send me signals "How could you do this to me?!"

It is not the belongings that make me feel stable and peaceful. It is a lack of them. And a constant cycle of things out and in. in and out.

now I count my peace. I loose the count twice or three times.

I never care


All the notes read out loud

My life is love. just the word isn't right. i would love to let the love free just i am not sure if it had grown the wings strong enough. my life is a bird. my life is a land

there is such a deep ocean of love washing my shores. every time taking something in and rarely leaving something behind. there are almost no washed out sticks of passion, there are no stones of desire, there are no pieces of amber reminding the victory and the hope. i heard someone say "if you are lucky you will never fall in love again". i haven't heard anyone being lucky 

in few decades you learn how to accept it- just like a fact that your tea got cold. unavoidable. but it takes more than just a time to give up. and i am not sure if i have what it takes.

it resembles a bit of a dream that repeats itself for years and years, and every time you don't get too far from the previous episode. i feel how the curiosity to dream it again overrules me and after short bargaining session takes all of my balance and leaves me with despair. leaves me with those weak wings to be blasted by the winds above the grey and powerful ocean. of unknown, of love. leaves me alone with unavoidable destiny. 

i feel that those last minutes to home are the most excruciating. my wings get sore, i lose my faith and fall. and it never hurts. the ocean and the sky turns up and down exchanging places and it feels like i have never stop fluttering my wings, like i kept on going. and i never stopped feeling. the painless moment is endless falling itself.

the endless course visited Robert Frost in June 1922 when he was up all night finishing his poem "New Hampshire" and has finally finished it when he realized that morning had come, he went for a walk and got the idea for "stopping by woods on a snowy evening" he wrote it about the snowy evening and the little horse as "if I'd had a hallucination" in just "a few minutes without strain"

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;   
He will not see me stopping here   
To watch his woods fill up with snow. 

My little horse must think it queer   
To stop without a farmhouse near   
Between the woods and frozen lake   
The darkest evening of the year.   

He gives his harness bells a shake   
To ask if there is some mistake.   
The only other sound’s the sweep   
Of easy wind and downy flake.   

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   
But I have promises to keep,   
And miles to go before I sleep,   
And miles to go before I sleep.


Ride the road

When the summer is getting into the faster and faster pace, marbles bump each other with their glass bellies and change directions according to their wishes. And something that has been sleeping cosily in one canvas bag all together for the past few years has to separate and leave your pocket. It is always sad to lose some marbles, not in a sense of going mad, but in the sense that you can't always be a winner in all the games. On the other hand, the road is the exciting part and we are always on one. Our atoms move like marbles, hitting each other gently with their bellies and bouncing off. They are on the road, so why don't we see ourselves moving as fast? 

It might be just an observation, but we want to materialize movement in things and experiences, forgetting what experiences and moments we have... right now. The body might not move but our thoughts wander. And nobody can simply help it, just acknowledge the path your thoughts made and maybe count it as an achievement, greeting them with a glass of fresh made lemonade. 

I am always on the road, through the thin sleep nights when I wake up to draw my dreams, when my dream whispers to me to get one of those leather cowboy flasks for water to carry in style, when my dream writes notes on the spilled white sauce with green peas and it says "We are beat" or maybe when somebody sings a song with no melody or absolutely no logical explanation of lyrics and it just makes sense not to make any sense. 

That is THE ROAD and supposedly the best trip is not knowing what awaits you on the road. Maybe summer marble game will be your road to Damascus.

Lovely animated drawings by Oamul, Chinese illustrator, from his series "On the Road". Check more of his work right HERE



Sometimes I think that I'm going to tattoo a third eye on my cheek next to my happy wrinkles, cut my hair that it would be as short as well trimmed lawn and move in back with my parents in the province town. Everybody would be asking "what happened?" or even be too scared to ask. Awkward silence and frightened looks in shops, banks and parks. And if somebody would ask "what happened?" I'd just answer "Nothing". Massive confusion and maybe at some point everybody would just get tired and get used to me. And the explanation would be just Nothing. Because nothing would have had happened. Nothing. Nothing feels better than saying truth and still surprising people. 

The very Zen moment of Nothing. 

Grace Cho illustration



Latin for 'weeping'

I've sent the frost and sun to wipe your yellow tears.
I've sent heavy steam disturbing your breath and bitting chill to make you understand how easy you can breathe during the other seasons.
I've sent you insanity to understand that life achievements are nothing if you don't know how to enjoy life failures.
I've sent you body illness to fill your psyche abyss.
You kept on crying and then I've sent you challenges that didn't leave you any time to shed a tear. I've been sending you gifts that you fought to accept. I've been sending you gifts that you thought were punishments.
I've sent you weeks of rain to flood your shallow soul. You kept on sobbing, surmising that at least you can hide your tears in the rain. Despite that you cried even more. People could not see you weeping. Rain washed your tears. You lost your daily attention.
I've sent you lonesomeness to understand that you are the best company for yourself.
I've sent you all this putting all my thoughts, prayers and heart into. Risking my kindness to be misinterpreted.

I don't want anything back except for you not to return into the misery you've escaped from. 

stop weeping. 
listen to me

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