The Soul in the Rain

Or maybe we should forget it all. Is it worth it? That is the question which is going to be left on us, with all of the heaviness which it bears. It will hold on to our necks in a manner of trying to bring us down, but we will be smiling, however, smiling, like it could never happen, like we were more than just rugs, meaningless frames for the hanging questions.

 I am not depressed. I just forgot to pick up a part of my soul from the doctor’s waiting room. No one noticed. It keeps hanging there as a coat, or a used umbrella, too old, too scarved for anyone to be tempted to take it with them. It stays still, an anonymous passenger of an eternal carriage, a silent witness of your tears, your dreams, your bruises. I am not getting it back anymore. Let me leave it there, without a trace, with its’ mouth shut in a silent protest. Let me leave it next to you. To listen to your breathe.

 Just like I didn’t notice the piece of the moon, on my way back home. If there is any home, for a soul such fragmented. Sometimes I can see the pieces of souls of others. They pass me on the street, trying to hold my shoulder, desperately glaring for more than just an elusive attention. I walk away. I need to follow the steps of the crowd. Such treading does not allow you to stop, neither to move forward. You can only keep treading, path by path, step by step. Behind the crowd. I always recognized these lost bits of human souls, with the rest of a rope on their necks. Seemingly invisible, they stuck their nails in your chest, hungry for life. I often think about my forgotten piece of soul. What is one day it gets bored of sitting there, in a waiting room, and just like all of these pathetic beings desires to walk out on the street. Maybe it will miss something, and decide to give it a chase. Without a head, my poor piece of soul, will be chasing the forgotten, the forgiven, the buried. Miserable creature of mine, will never find what it is looking for, since it has no eyes to see, no heart to lead it. It will pursue the echoes of my past desires, the tears which has already fallen, the dreams which never dared to be dreamed. Maybe one day it will come to you. But you will never know if it is here, a piece of invisible fabric left in the waiting room to never be reclaimed.

 Sometimes I think about this poor piece of soul of mine. But I shall not engage in a search. I need to keep treading the path, path to path, step to step. I need to move forward with the crowd and carry the unanswered question on my neck. There is nothing left on me, but keep treading. 

My Dear Marjeanne- a letter to my imaginary friend

 A little introduction: when I was around six years old I had an imaginary friend called Marjeanne. She was not only imaginary, but also lived far away, in France. Therefore, I only wrote letters to her. Later at school I tried to believe in her again in order to practice my French, but for me age fifteen it was somehow impossible to write a letter to someone who, simply, doesn't exist. Recently Frank (being imaginary person himself) made me realized that whether she exists or not only depends on myself. So I started to write to Marjeanne again. I just had so many things to tell her. 

Dear Marjeanne,

 After Alonso left I realized how difficult it is to cook for one person only. Some other day I wanted to buy some parts of chicken but I couldn't find any small portion and I don't have enough space in my freezer to buy any larger packs. In fact, I rarely cook these days and even noticed I don't need to eat so frequently anymore. My dad came over with a short visit and I finally cooked this pasta with cheese sauce and seafood. I have to admit, it was delicious. 

 It's been only several months as I back to study and I already feel like it's been my life. I am completely devoted to my dissertation. To make a confession, I even stopped writing. It is a pity indeed, but some of that stuff was too personal to be published anyway. As you might have guessed,  never finished that novel I used to write some years ago. Looks like every year I write another part, then I put it back. Maybe one day it will evolve and surprise me but it is not about to happen just yet. 

Recently I have been thinking a lot. You may say I have changed some of my life priorities, but as you know me, you know I am shit scared of changes. I just have a impression that some formulas in my life are simply expired. In particular, I am overwhelmed with a driving force of my reality, which is the myth of success. It's noting else but the way people perceive reality and talk about it. Apparently a main path of all of your actions should be a path towards success. Or better a highway. Don't even dare hitchhiking. 

 According to that invisible power you're meant to crave money, as much as you can choke on it so it will give you a position of someone being almost a noble one, almost I would say, a mystic. 

 That power also has a second side: it assumes you belong to some certain group of people. Every group of such kind has its' own attributes which are, as it's concluded, your own. If you do not have these attributes yourself, the social eye of appropriateness will search for ones within you. Then, once they get a hint, they'll treat you according to the rules of treatment of a certain group. Assuming, you are never yourself.

 Either what you really want doesn't matter. Neither who you are. People always have their ow bunch of cliche ready for you. 

 It doesn't hurt, Marjeanne. You get immuned. Until one day a person you care appear to see you as someone else. Then, my dear Marjeanne, you start to fear.

And you're never never never gonna get married- the social eye of appropriateness

I was twelve when I heard this magic phrase for the first time. It was sung, or rather screamed out by an imaginary little angel (sleeky, gross and horrific angel) to one of my early youth's heroine Ally McBeal. It was of course a nightmare as it's always, for God's sake, meant to be a nightmare for a woman, at that age in that kind of movie. But you see, I was twelve. And shame on me, I could't get it- what's the big deal? Unfortunately for the creators of the great hit of nineties, I still don't get it. 

  Because now it's the time, my dear readers, to talk about something that some do not want to hear about: woman's age. I just turned twenty eight. 

 As some of you might remember a year ago I spammed your Facebook walls with number of posts titled: '27'. This year I was naturally on my way to do the same, but luckily, for the sake of community, for the sake of unquestioned and commonly shared values, for the virtue of populistic, higher purpose, I was stopped. I was stopped by the biggest power of contemporary world: the social eye of appropriateness. Always on time, to make me realize what an awful thing I wanted to do against humanity: I wanted to convince you that woman's age doesn't matter. How foolish of me.

 So, what is women's age? It's a superior category in the eye of social appropriateness, which creates and saves the natural order of the world. Women's age is a category marking woman's achievements. And moreover, the place of each one of us in the space, in the genderized circle or things moving around. Don't feel sad if you don't understand it, I would probably never uderstand it either.

William Faulkner once said that there is one particular difference between men and women: men are looking for love, women want to get married. And he's never been to my hometown. Unlike him, I visited this place very recently.

 To be hundred percent sincere to my readers, I must do a little stop here. This part was indeed supposed to be a rally of women over 25, trying to get a guy in front of the altar. And it was about me liberated from it by my lovely reality built by myself over the past years. Sadly, since I started to write this post some of my friends, acquaintances, neighbours and a crowd of random clackers made me realize that I am not liberated at all. In fact, none of us is. There is this magical border for all of us behind which what we believe in, what we are craving, what we are searching, simply stops to matter. What matters is what we should, how we should and how miserable we appear if we don't want.
 And what I should is something I would never guess. But luckily all of my lovely supporters were here to tell me that, right on time, supported by numbers of articles and psychological cliches alongside with a painful bunch of bullshit.

A 28-years-old woman should never, ever use the word 'bullshit'. Especially not in public. Innit!

 Shall I say instead: oh thank you so much for your prompt and such a friendly advice, it warmed my heart up so much (mamma's style, of course- the woman my age is meant to have loads of maternity instinct); unfortunately, for now I am not in a position to make a use of it but I want you to know that your advice is always more than welcome.

 Instead I will say exactly how I want it to sound. And what is actually is: the guidebook to be a 28-years-old woman.
 The advice start with some innocent suggestions. For example, I should be having posters on my wall anymore. (Hands off of my Chat Noir bought in Camden!)
 I shouldn't be wearing booty length shorts anymore. (I never had any, but as the summer will be approaching soon I am just hunting some online.)
 No more ironic t-shirts. (I just got a new one.)

 Starting rather anxiously, it jumps to conclusions. I detest conclusions out of their definition, but this time it is serious: these conclusions are about me. Apparently women my age are bound to watch reality shows and enjoy endless portions of booze drunk all alone. They also don't seem to enjoy partying hard or junk food (as a diabetic, I wonder how much that has to do with age... unless someone suggests that after a certain age don't you dare to be fat). The other parts, I believe, I don't need to explain.

What worries me the most is still not all of this. This- is just a beginning,

These are probably the last Birthday you want to celebrate

 My friends are used to the fact that each year on my Birthday I throw a party. Not trying to be humble, it is kind of a celebration day for them, and for some a fixed date in their calendars. As this year I teamed up with Baby Lion, the agreed date hit a hectic time for me and I was unsure about the size of my party. And it was surprisingly her, merely celebrating her sweet 23, who all of a sudden said this phrase. That is probably the last Birthday you want to celebrate.
 That was something I certainly did not take on the account. As she tried to explain, later you are busy with career (what career?) or you care more about the Birthdays of your kids (excuse me, whose kids?!). And of course, I won't be celebrate my thirties. Oh no! I will tie myself up in the bathtub and cry my eyes out! For God's sake!

The days between- the sweet, lovely world of Procrastination

-Do you post something on your blog every month?- asked the very first person interested in my blog since ages.

 Yep every month. Very well said.

 I wonder if they are somewhere there, in space, other people who believe they don't get things done, or done rightly, or done with the righteous frequency. And if I wonder so, as you can guess, I must be on holidays. 

-Coffee please- you would like to say if it was not about to be your third coffee today, or if you could cheat that your body- being indulged during the relaxing holidays- still needs any stimulation.  Getting a tea instead (which is something around seventh) you open the fridge thinking about what would you like to eat now, only to discover you've already eaten everything. In fact, you were not doing anything all day long. And if so, that must be Christmas. 

  There is probably no other subject with so many theories and articles written on like procrastination. Even the ancient Chinese Oracle I Ching mentions: 'Procrastination brings regrets'. Although, there seems not to be a simple resolution for this- the old same phrase 'I procrastinate' sounds out on and on even with pride, this straightforward pride of being human, and what is in it more human than procrastination.

 What is so attractive about it that we all fall for its' undeniable charm? Surely the long tradition, which grows above cultures and civilizations and makes us all equal in the habit and belief that 'things are getting done'. There is one objective in that sentence: they are getting done on their own. Therefore it is not human nature, not a philosophical and fatalistic shape of the world's running but the cult of things getting done effortlessly.

The curse of effort

 Some while ago I had an interesting conversation with one of my friends about the purpose of life which is, beyond any ideological meanings, what do we want to do and where do we want to be. Somewhere in between the lines I dropped several thoughts on my blog: it was more or less two months since the last post. But my thoughts were on writing in general- the process of that, the possible aim of that and mostly, on the idea of writing just for writing. Nevertheless, what I actually said was a miserable try of explanation (to a non-writing person) that the process of writing is not easy. For what I basically meant, the whole process, not a socially acceptable imagination of a writer, boiling in the pot of their passion with a piece of paper as an innocent victim of such matters. The process of reincarnation into a story, becoming a story with your full heart and soul, not a person who jumps out to the local Sainsbury's in between the lines. Because my dear readers, wouldn't that be a fraud?

 So I was on my way to explain how does this process work even I was not really in the mood for explanations. But instead of an open mind (so desirable these days, especially if you're on Couchsurfing) I met with a wall which stopped just in front of my nose carrying a deeply sophisticated sentence:

-If that's how you perceive it, maybe you shouldn't write at all?

 For those who are not familiar with limited minds' vision of the world: it was a 'maybe that is not for you' kind of advice. That kind my mother could have given me if she was not a crazy tribal jewellery artist (and a fortune teller). Luckily for us, as human beings we tend not to listen to advice. 

December nostalgy or meeting by the well

 There was a popular song around ten years ago going like: 'One day we'll meet by the well, maybe in the better world, our wives will be pretty and vodka won't harm us anymore'. The more the time goes by, the more beautiful the well, gathering your memories and dreams that never came true. And the more the time goes by, the more blurry is the image of the well: the more puzzling is the question what to say. 

 Some other day I was walking around the streets I used to pass every day, the same streets and the same noise of random talks, the same smell of Russian gasoline. I passed an old shop on the main street (if you can call it any) which used to be our shop in the distant jokes, mine and Silvia's. Couple of days ago it was Silvia's Birthday. And under a thrill or a hint, I dropped her a message. She's happy she said, wishing she could, just like me, come over for Christmas. All of the memories have come alive, like when we walked to a party outside the town, and we found a cigarette lying on the snow, or like... The streets became a bit depressive, were they always like this? so I decided to come back home, and refused to leave again to meet my (somehow long-time-no-seen) cousin. He reached my home around an hour later. A bottle of wine, long time no drunk- red one, I don't really drink the red one anymore, hang on I practically don't drink wine at all. This one bring memories, like then when... You remember or when... 

 After a while he asked me if I had any news from a friend. Used to be our friend, but no, sadly. I was about to, write/call/step by/ whatever else but then there is this threat following it, the threat of unbreakable silence. After a while, you don't want to share things which went wrong. You stick it at the back of your head with a label 'personal', not destined to a friend marked as 'long-time-no-seen'. Ideally, such meeting should be joyful, and you should dig and dig until you find again all those qualities you used to appreciate in the person and, which is worse, inside yourself. Otherwise you can sentence the two of you to silence, not only a silence for one evening, but the eternal silence of your memories and past events, a silence which will be causing a hick-up everytime you ever recall the face of the person. It's that kind of silence no one could bear.

 My cousing is a counsellor. There is probably many things being a counsellor can teach you, but there is surely one of special significance: avoiding problematic relationships. And these are random relationships formed between two people meeting once again after a time of dispersal: as they are never what they ought to be. The bond of friendship is a magnificent creation of experience. Experience which, without continuity, breaks through and dies forever. Maybe if some people were counsellors, just like my cousin, they would know it. Unfortunately, they are not and they fall over and over into a spiral of sympathy and politeness which is right there to destroy their memories forever. 

 Coming back to my cousin, recently he received an offer from a friend to join a meeting with their mutual old friend. Surprisingly for the other side, he refused. 

-Are you crazy, what am I going to tell him?

-Exactly, what are you going to tell him at first place?

 By the chance of this dialogue, the eyes of my cousin and Frank are meeting. I can see them both, two counsellors communicating by the code we will never understand, nodding in agreement.

-The answer is always the same- explained Frank with his right hand raised in the act of clarification. -We met and it was brilliant. Because they always meet for a beer- both sides count on a possibility of getting drunk and let it 'somehow' go!

 I couldn't really join this discussion since I, for one of my rules, try to avoid people from the past. But in that matter my life surely divides into two periods: before, and after I met Kati.

The Escape

 These days I start to give to my pieces very short titles. Not like I wanted to make them more catchy, it is just we live in the world where everything gets shorter, story, relationships, sleep, the time between the first date and going together to bed. Nothing wrong about it, as life, as you can see, is short. 

 This shortness continues silently suffering inside me, dying a little bit with me each day which is over. I am missing these lost days, missed forever and left behind with no regrets and no place to look back, leaving only few hopes for what is there to look forward to. I feel guilty for them. I am abandoning them one day by another. Three days ago I abandoned three years of my life. And it was worth it. 

 One year ago I gifted my readers with a detailed report from my birthweek- not asking you for permission, for which I apologize. Cause there was no transition, no flowers falling from the sky, no fireworks of my way and no easy answers. For all that, I apologize. To myself. 

 This year my Birthday went quiet. Just passing, like a passenger outside the window, giving you a random look only to walk away within seconds. Because this year I know that life is not to provide us with easy answers and what we want is not necessarily what is to make us happy. There are not any great things to wait for, not a happy ending from a book, not a spectacular movie final neither an enthusiastic audience rooting for our success. Life is too low budget- doesn't provide even the curtain. 

 And if you understand what am I saying, it means that once you were, just like me, looking at your life as a race of achievements. Moving from task to task- throwing an amazing Birthday party, getting a job you want, increasing your income, realizing an exciting project, gaining good friends, meeting the one, having children. Achievement to achievement, task to task, a swirling buffonade constructing an eternal wall between the winners and the losers. What turned to be against the original plan, is mostly that the second ones tend to be happier. 

 Today I wanted to write. But instead, I escaped again. I spent a lovely day though, thank you! I spent it in the world of my imagination. In this world there is no future, there is no time. There is nothing I am waiting for. It's just a street and me, walking without any purpose, looking at the windows, observing how other lives go on behind them, in the light of the yellow bulbs. Thousands of bulbs, thousands of lives, breathing simultaneously in the rhythm of the city, which is not the city anymore, but something else. After dark the whole world is only a magical kingdom of the night, with its own secret treasures hidden behind the walls. It will never show you these stories- you have to write them yourself. 

 So these days, I did not achieve to enjoy my birthweek. Instead, I celebrate every moment, and if I have to I take on my magic carpet and fly away. Because there is nothing more to look forward, no magical solutions, no more breathtaking miracles about to happen, nothing beyond that moment. Because all of them, magic, solutions and miracles come in silently, as a stranger. There is nothing beyond this life which is now. Nothing else is today on the menu.

Home

 This week I suddenly got a little busy and didn't have much time to think about where to push my life to achieve the next step. Then afterwards there was a surprising thought just about to cross my mind: will my holidays, planned for a long time ahead and approaching day by day, actually happen. The reason for such doubts is nothing but beaurocracy and a simple fact that sometimes it is better to stay in place. But now, exactly, better for what? Because what on Earth can be more important than going home? 

 It was supposed to be a nice Friday night with Paloma Faith the great at the Proms but the sudden sadness about not going, turning off my long-planned holidays, has taken away all of the joy of the great night. I wished to come back home. And before you ask, what home?- there is a large amount of factors making us define our home. Some like to say that home is wherever your heart is- that's one of the biggest deceive one can do to themselves.

The definition of feeling home is strictly bound to the natural instincts- it's one of the most dangerous, illusional and desperate need in the history of human being- it's a need for safety.


 On Friday night I found myself needing a home- surprisingly- my home in East London. Just like many years ago before Thinkersoup and Tigerlily decided to head to Edinburgh, before A. have left to Belgrade, before Mr Charming has found his destiny as a sex guru, before The Guy I Lived With abandoned the big city flash, before Vincenzo's favourite team lost one time too much. Before that happened, once there was a home. But the one I was desperately running to on Friday night was a different one. It was a home which has built itself, somewhere aside, on a margin of my biography. It was a home within myself, holding tightly in between my own walls which only took some words to understand. I was running home.