вторник, декември 06, 2011

An October in Time /dreamlike version/

Every day is a flood. At least it's our flood... You and I are still swimming - that gives me peace of mind. Yet in those moments you look away, I silently fear the sound that each drowning second of our time together makes. Our time runs out like raindrops, dropping in from a place far beyond our comprehension. Like a gift from another world, doomed to be spilled out into a still freeze, soon it will be far from the reach of our present. Forever. And the only thing we're left with is the hope for more incoming drops.

No time for morning tea, because I have to run. Like all mornings, on which I decided to sleep only 15 minutes longer, the taxi driver is already impatient. I have to jump, to overcome, to stretch myself thin - so thin, until I've spread myself all over the place. And there's so much to feel, when your heart flutters like purple butterfly wings, yet feeling is the last thing I have time for. Perhaps I'm better off this way - all sorts of boiling fears are barred from crawling up and down the place before they even have the chance to creep up.

The sweet memory of last night still lingers in my pocket, while the day is ruled by a reality very different from the one I exist in in those sweet dark hours. The day belongs to traffic lights, sirens, hysterical voices, waiting on long queues, finding the right arguments, knowing when to hold your tongue, trying not to take things personally, organizing schedules, running errands, and above all - the giant Clock. It follows me around with a stallinistic consistency, hovering over my working-class-tunic like a firespitting dragonfly. At some point, you can't help but wonder what the point of this juggling daily routine really is, and you begin passionately desiring the ultimate collapse of this neverending, nothingbringing, unamusing rut. Then you catch the glimpse of the Clock and attempt to pull yourself together, realizing that soon the day will fade with the sunset, and muse your facial expression back into something slightly less dissociative.

"I suppose I'm slowly morphing into two completely separate persons," I whisper in his ear, feeling the warmth of its skin in our prematurely freezing autumn night. "The sunny girl and the moony one. The only time I feel that Time truly belongs to me is in those few hours of the night I have with you." The Clock chimes, marking the slipping of yet another waterfall of timely raindrops out and away of our universe.

Из рандъм записки в тролейбуса, предимно вдъхновени от червени светофари