Till it falls into pieces

It’s time to turn off the light..My favourite time of the day. When you can turn off the lights and see..nothing. Now you can really enjoy the night. I don’t like all these mid-stages. Twilight..Either complete darkness or the bright light. I know how it drives everyone crazy but should I care?They just have no idea what it’s like to disappear in the darkness.

Bright light..you exist, everything’s so clear and here it comes..a shut down…you see nothing, you feel nothing..you disappear. Love those moments of complete frustration. When you start to wonder whether you ever existed. Whether there had ever been light. The moments when you are alone with your thoughts trying to find the way out.

I believe that darkness is the most sincere shape of reality. Light..makes everything look so..neat. Everyone and everything prefers to hide showing only the best side of them. And in the darkness..you can’t be afraid of being who you are, there’s no one to judge and to be judged. I believe darkness hides a lot more than light can show.

My favourite time..I feel life everywhere. I don’t see but feel. 

Few more minutes to feel the world..few more minutes to be its integral part..till it breaks, falls into separate pieces.

Few more minutes..

Mirrors

Where’s the way out? Just mirrors and mirrors everywhere..No escape, no way to run, no way to hide..This room of laughter has always been a horror one for me, still can’t believe I was the one to suggest going here. Where’s she? Though, who cares actually? Probably got her dose of laughter and left already. The date was a failure from the very beginning..

Mirrors, mirrors..Same different person everywhere..Never understood what so funny people find in this “entertainment”. I’m lost. Guess it’s time to accept..and I’m freaked out. Mirrors..they are more than they seem. They know. They feel..What to say about these wrong ones? They show. Wrong mirrors.. they give us more than just a reflection..they show the ugly reality which is hidden. But not from them. They know.

Tired of running along the same corridors. I give up. Give up to find a way out. Just me and the ugly truth.

What if? What if mirrors work the other way round? And we are the reflection? What if everything that we do isn’t even our wish or desire?..We just reflect.

If I stop here? In the middle..among these wrong portals..What world am I reflecting at the moment? All? If I stop here..will I stop everywhere? Can I end this chain of reflections just by stopping here? What if?

All mirrors differ, various ways to make people laugh..People often laugh at something that doesn’t fit their way of seeing things. Why can’t they accept the possibility that wrong and weird can be those right ones? Why once chosen priorities and standards guide our everyday lives and nobody cares about reviewing them?

This mirror makes my shoulders huge..but when I touch it the effect disappear..so..it’s the same person. What if I can unite them? Unite these two dimensions? And the others? If it’s no more than a distracting effect that makes those mirrors look wrong? But the person..is still the same. Can I unite all these reflections into one true person? I’m a reflection myself..there’s another guy behind every mirror running along his own horror room..and we are the one. If only I could reach this freedom..freedom to decide..be the one, not a bunch of separated reflections..being locked in the mirrors, but..being free..

——–

— Hey? Is anyone here? It’s time to close. Sir? Are you OK?

And I was OK. I was looking at that funny redhead kid staring at me from my mirror. He touched the mirror and turned nervously around desperately looking for other reflections of me.

I smiled and left. Free.

Bookworm

Passing these old paper notes attached to every possible flat surface he was feeling as a bookworm. A lonely old clumsy worm that happened to find himself in a pile of old forgotten magazines. He forgot how he appeared in this city and this small street leading to nowhere. Frankly speaking he wasn’t even sure whether it’s a city and if this narrow paper passage can be called a street. But still here it was, and here was he. Walking to nowhere.

There were all sorts of papers starting from huge ones covering halves of the walls to really small ones no more than a finger wide. Each of them was shouting something, numbers, letters, words..they were flying, laying, sitting, curling everywhere..forming a flow of random phrases and numbers..papers of all colours and shapes on purpose or not were somehow brought there. He tried to read some phrases at first, trying to find any logic in this flow..but the more he tried the less reasonable this idea seemed..He just found himself lost in the middle of nowhere…

The paper tunnel wasn’t as straight as it seemed, it was turning along with the letters’ curling, it was changing all the time. No surprise he got lost so easily just walking along the same street. Who and why had put all these notes? They were everywhere..leaving walls and attaching again to the completely different places..There was no chance to predict their ways.

He was walking. How much time had passed? Few minutes? An hour? A week? He kept walking. Sometimes in a desperate attempt tried to run, tried to get away. But there was no escape same as there was no turn back. There were only those stupid notes. He noticed how his walk changed. He was following some particular rhythm the tunnel had. Those notes’ changes weren’t as random as he thought before. There was a melody, a tune he hadn’t noticed..It was hypnotizing, welcoming and..warm.

He felt that tunnel. He felt that tune. He knew were he belongs. He was that dammit bookworm.

Rain

Rain. How many stories begin with rain? Rain makes everyone stay at home and avoid any outside activity. But what if the story comes to you? Just like tonight. This lonely midnight knocking on my door. They say, there’s nothing more scary than a closed door. Never thought my door would be that “scary” one. Though, maybe there’s no story at all and it’s my tired imagination decided to play with me.

Knocking stopped. Just as I thought. The last glass was definitely not the best idea. I’d better put it away and make myself more comfortable for this long night. Never sleep when it rains. Can spend hours watching the raindrops pour down my window. When I was a child I used to think that the tune the rain plays on the roof is actually a monologue, don’t you think it has something to say? I could spend the whole night writing down the “words”. They said I’m a dreamer. But what if in a few years another such dreamer would read this rain code? Why can’t that be me?

Knocking started again. Guess I should take a look. There are rules that are to be followed. Never open the door after 6 pm. Never. No one knows where this rule comes from, all we know is that you are to obey. A man wearing a hood. Never liked men in hoods..What are you hiding? My curiosity would kill me someday. Knocking continues. He has no idea I’m watching. Maybe it’s not a man, I’m so quick in judging but this hands could actually belong to anyone in this town. Why is he still here? He’s been knocking for about a quarter of an hour, Enough to understand that no one would open. How strange, he can’t be from here, he should be aware of the rules. Then what could bring him to our town? No place to stay at such an hour, no way he would find it till sunrise. Still knocking, changed hands.

A clock on the tower nearby stroke 1 am.

I knock back.

It’s not a regular thing to do, just felt that it must be done, He stopped in surprise and looked up – right to my eyes. Now I understand why he was wearing a hood. and it wasn’t for the rain. Black hair. There were fantastic stories about them..but real ones? I could never imagine. He’s not knocking anymore, just silently staring at me through the door. He can’t even know where my eyes are but somehow he stares right at them. Regular face, black eyes..if it wasn’t for the hair I would say he’s a regular guy I can meet in the street.

1.15

I open the door and step away. Pick up my glass and move to the window. Still raining. if it doesn’t stop would have to stay at home tomorrow. Today. He’s inside. I hear the door being closed. He found the bottle. Lightning. Guess, no chance to sleep. I dare to turn. Now when he took off his coat he looks even more usual. At least some use from my fireplace. I’m indifferent to cold and set it for atmosphere only. Lonely sleepless nights are better to be spent next to the fire than in the dark, though..everything happens. I take my time looking at him. Actually staring. When again I would have a chance to examine him properly?

He’s drinking slowly, staring back at me. I pour myself one more glass and step back to the window. Not a word is said, but do we need any?

The clock stroke 2.

A nice day / Story with no end #2

It was a nice day, there was nothing special about that particular day and it could be easily lost among other same “nice” days. Days always can be characterized somehow but there are days that are just nice, neither bad or good, just nice. I find these days the worst ones, as they can be easily forgotten, and just disappear in the chain of same days with no story…but that day was special as despite that it was nice it was remarkable enough to be recorded. Not every day has such an honour to be recorded, especially if it’s just a nice day, so here it goes..

It was a nice day, like every other day, it started rather early making the town wake up, people weren’t really happy to start a new day that early but the bright warm sun already shining above that early in the morning did its job, making sleepy faces smile to welcome the new day. Everything was going as it should, people were getting up, preparing and leaving to their work, dreaming about the weekend to actually enjoy this nice weather.

So what actually made this day remarkable enough?

It was the first day when Mr. Clarke overslept.He woke up half an hour later and was that shocked with this fact so spend another 15 minutes just thinking how could that happen. When he finally realized that the time keeps going and he’s still in bed and now there’s no chance to be at work in time, he rushed out of his bed to the window to watch the last morning bus leaving. He spent another few minutes near the window looking to the town shining in the morning sun realizing that he had never seen this view before. How often we look at something but never actually see.

It was so not typical of him to be late so now he was puzzled what he was to do during the day. He was one of the most responsible people ever and usually had a strict schedule for the whole day, week and even year. He was spending at least an hour in the evening planning the next day, and now he just couldn’t accept the fact that he can’t follow the plan. There was no need to hurry anywhere, no need even to change his pyjamas, he could spend the whole day on his own, in any way he would like. But the problem was that he wanted to spend it like all the days before and now facing the problem of total freedom he felt lost in nowhere, trying to find at least some duties he could do. And there was nothing left to do, everything was planned for weeks ahead and there was no way to accomplish the future task without ruining the whole system.

So here he was, free but trapped…He couldn’t remember the last day when he had no plan, in his childhood he was taught to make plans for everything, every single small thing, some of his plans (actually most of them) may seem ridiculous and meaningless, but that was his way of living and he couldn’t imagine any other one.

He was standing near the window thinking about possible ways to solve the problem, there was no need to call to work, he knew that nobody would notice his absence. He was confused about this day, as there was no certainty about the future.

Mr. Clarke wasn’t a spontaneous person. At all. He knew exactly as much as he should, did exactly what he should, he wasn’t curious about anything apart his own life. He cared about others but only as much as it was needed to be known as a good person, it seemed like he had no feelings or thoughts on his own, just a small engine in his brain telling him how it “must” be. He’d never tried to change it, why to change as he’s doing everything “right”?

It was getting hotter and standing near the window was becoming less and less pleasant and just when Mr. Clarke decided to leave this “useless” occupation and at least go and have a breakfast he noticed a strange thing in that peaceful scene outside. There was a small lorry parked right across the street. There was nothing special about that lorry, a small white one usually used to deliver bread or flowers, but this one had no signs on its sides, and the only remarkable thing about it was its owner, running around it trying to open the back door that apparently had stuck.

How do we usually imagine the lorry drivers? An ordinary man in his 40s, smoking wearing a funny cap and depending on the product he’s delivering: either swearing or smiling. But this one.. was a woman, around 25 years old, with bright fair hair in a pony tail reaching her shoulders, in the old scotch shirt and dark jeans. She was running around, trying to find a way to open the back door, it seemed like not the first time she faced that problem as her actions seemed well-organized, that made Mr. Clarke think that she was actually the owner of that truck. As a “right” person he couldn’t watch a girl struggling alone and hurried up to the lorry.

No way back

“Once decided there’s no way back..” That’s how I was thinking crossing the road to enter a small shop right at the corner of the street.

There was something creepy in that small outlet, Was it an old sign above the entrance where you could hardly read “Kraig’s”? Hardly as some parts of the letters were missing, as they were constantly falling on customers’ heads the owner was changing them from time to time. In order to economize the owner was ordering the cheapest letters he could find, and now all the letters were of different sizes and fonts. I was wondering if I could enter the shop without having my head be hurt with the “K”.. it was shaking dangerously in the uprising wind. Another special thing about that shop was the old door, it was so old that it seemed impossible to open. I had a feeling that I would be the one to ruin it completely. The upper half of the door had a glass in it, the only thing the owner was changing constantly without economizing. No, it wasn’t because of his love to that particular door, the real reason was that this glass was the only “window” of the shop. The only way to look inside was that small piece of glass in the about-to-fall-off door with few creepy letters above your head, waiting for their lucky chance to smash your head.

“Once decided there’s no way back”.. I kept telling this to myself over and over again. I talk with myself whenever I feel lack of courage, sometimes I start to do it aloud when I’m flattered or really scared. Anyway… I was approaching the door and could already see some dark shelves inside the shop through the glass, when I suddenly felt something unusual under my feet. Instead of the grey pavement now I found myself standing in the middle of a small sand island right outside the shop’s door. I stopped in surprise. I was wondering how I could appear in the situation like that, as there was no way this sand could actually get there.

There was something weird about that situation. I’ve never seen sand in my life, some people have never touched snow, I’ve never touched sand. When most children spent their childhood playing with send, “building” or “cooking”, I spent all my childhood inside…Well, that’s another story.

So here I am. An ordinary 30 years old man standing in the sand in the middle of an empty street with a puzzled face on. I can’t describe my emotions at the moment, what is that? A fear? Happiness?Excitement?.. Oh, damn, I’m just shocked, nothing more. I’ve been wondering about sand for so long and now here I am and here it is..and I feel…Nothing. Just some disappointment came. There are many things I missed being a child and now almost every day I’m discovering something new and I feel like my childhood dreams are vanishing..more and more mysteries disappear and I can never bring them back…

Then suddenly 2 things happened: the wind has blown extremely strong and some sand covered my light white shoes making me to bend over in order to clear it away.. and at the same time one of the letters hung above the door (actually that the most creepy one “K”) decided to surrender at that particular moment and bring me happiness of meeting it…yes yes, exactly..by falling on my head… The last thing I remember was the thought “Oh damn, now I will have sand everywhere”…At least I had my hat on.