A Fallacy

They tell me I am confident. They truly see me that way. Oh, but if only they knew. I'm not hiding, I'm not pretending to be anything I'm not, but the face I project makes people happier, perhaps, at least at first, than my true self, riddled with insecurities. If I can make you smile, feel at ease, then I feel that energy, that warmth inside, and I too grow. I feel the reflected joy and it sparks me off. But God, I know not confidence as you see it. I wish you only knew!

The First Day of Spring

Today must be the first day of spring. Forget the calendar. Everything about today says 'spring' (I am well aware this statement is also known as 'tempting fate'). The birds, the sunshine, the sky, the very air around us. It all fits, it all feels like that gloomy spell has been lifted from our days. The sun is (working on) polishing off the last remnants of snow into nothingness, into nothing more than a distant memory. Oh, how quickly we move on, we survive, we evolve.

Spring, only through it's arrival do we realise that winter, as beautiful as it has been here in Poland, was like living in a graveyard. The months were long and hard and tedious. Now we exit the torture like a child that slips straight from it's mother's vagina at birth. And we are free. To be trapped by something else. However long that freedom lasts, it exists. For all of us. Breathe it in, savour it, taste the sweet air of it on your tongue, your neck, fill your eyes up with all the beauty you possibly can. Welcome to spring in Poland.

Not Knowing Her Name

I loved the way she lowered her head, and the hair fell down one side and all those gentle little shadows played across her face.

Kto Wie Returns

Everything happens for a reason. Maybe we just don't find out precisely what that is. The clocks tick, but is it to control us, to guide us, to just show us where we are, what state we are in? Kto wie. I love the uncertainty of life outside the cage. Perhaps not forever, and freedom is a state of mind and it can easily be lost and maybe never recovered again. Hold on to it, if you think you have it. Perception. All these artforms, swimming through the brain, vying for attention. Oh, I love the struggle. How I love the blurry image of it all.

I want to comb my way through the mess. To find you. To hold a hand that matters, not just a hand. Not just any hand, you hear. There are so many hands, all reaching, all pulling at the clothes of, all trying to pull us down, underneath the ground, to where darkness festers. Oh, through the crowd, golden light surrounds her. Unfathomably, it still creeps into the mind. Let it go and perhaps it could locate us. I don't know, I am not sure you do, I reckon maybe nobody does. So, whatever will be, will be. Then.

The Silence and Wonder of Nature

Near total silence
Here in a big city
A motorbike buzzes in the background
A pin drop
I could hear it
Exquisite
Magic
Unexpected
It finds me
Us
The cold chill
This heaven
The garden
Pretty white lagoon
To swim in the snow
Peace at last
The ice drop
Crashing water nearby
Return to silence
Waves of tiny noise
Footprints in snow
The song is over
For now

Heartbreakthrough

Swimming through the waves and waves of people
I come to find you
No matter what it takes I will arrive
I will make it there
Some kind of breakthrough
For the heart and her
To keep pushing away
The waves forever
To remark on the struggle
The beauty is ever
All at our door
Always
At our door
The hinges are coming off
In our hands
And the gloves are lying on the floor

Open Your Eyes, Your Heart

It's passing you by. We are getting closer, closer we get. To death, to love, to failure, to a million things. The joint worst day. Back to back. Maybe to collect them. I. Always deep sighs. Open you heart, your eyes, before it is too late. Those butterfly regrets, fluttering, all around a corpse, just fluttering. Some leave, some don't know how to escape there. Get out while you can, the only way out is to let love in.

The King of All Loneliness

It's fucken tough at times. In this brutal place called Wonderland. It was meant to be this way. I was built for it. Nothing easy, body howling. You push me towards agony, effortlessly, needlessly. Ah, bliss. The cruelty of people. People are cruel. What should one expect? Nothing, and one cannot be disappointed. For this is difficult though.

And if the people who love me are out there i'd ask does love not need to be shown then? I should guess of its existence, am I correct? Where I have shown it in the past with words and supporting actions I must attempt to understand the concept of it being shown through silence (?). Okay. How odd, how strange, how pathetic. It carries an air of the conditional.

Far be it for me to proclaim myself some expert on love in the same day I openly name myself 'The King of All Loneliness,' (or at all, not what i was reaching for) but actions speak volumes to this here man. So, I can sit and write, not just from the Well of Depression, but about a great many topics, from angles that show various degrees of light. I can still see love, even if I can't feel it arriving at the door from more than one source. But if one person can entrust their own life to one other, foolishly or not, then one person can save the universe for another. All it takes to make the world. To save it. One person, when every other soul seems lost (to you), when those who should care abandon you. There is always hope, until the doors close, and even then it depends on the angle.

The battle of the century. You and I. And 'you' is everything, and 'I' is just one man. This one man.

you are not what you think
if you think
no not at all

Maybe winter really was designed for hibernation. Of all creatures.

When She Finally Dies...

When she finally dies, will regrets flutter from her body like butterflies? Will flowers grow from the ground above her unfinished heart? Will everything be sucked into a tragic past and yet maintain some epic tale of failed love throughout the ages?

I think many people live in fear. They follow rules, they do so as to feel safe, not law-abiding. They hide behind barriers and walls, and do not face the true battle as our recent ancestors did, standing in the middle of battlefields being shot and blown to pieces. They think of only their own needs and pleasures and desires and not of the ones others have, and how to truly share experiences and places and things. How many of you are busy taking photos of a place you visit rather than standing side by side with a loved one, forgetting what will just join a million other photos, and actually soaking up the sights?

When she finally dies will she leave as a proud vessel and her soul empty out into the universe with a wealth of pride and love, for all she ever set herself to, all her eyes fell upon and all she touched? Will she leave behind life lessons, valuable ones, for coming generations? Will it all have meaning or will she have left a cold shoulder astride a statue?

It is easy to ask questions and perhaps of the infinite answers all we could ascertain is that there will never be one answer, or at least not one on which we would all agree.

When she finally dies bury her deep, see how strong her will could be from the other side. A battle against nothing is an unnecessary challenge. For I sit here alone, waiting on clouds. They come, they arrive, they are blown here, and then they pass. This is life. Sometimes the wind blows quickly, sometimes the candle flames go out. Sometimes love is not enough and sometimes it cannot grow because we just can't let it inside. I suggest finding the key and the handle and opening the door. For we know nothing, so listen and learn. Unlock those doors and let anything inside, that you possibly can. Let it inside. For when she finally dies there should be no butterflies.

the worst day

does it really need to be written?

if only it had wings.

Fish Tank TV

There's nothing on. You know it, though for some reason you can't quite abandon your faithful, old friend. I took another route. I watch them swimming through the days. Even at night, I can hear splashing and bubbles being made at the top of the TV, the surface. Throw a few flakes in, watch them dart for the top of the screen and admire the great swimmers. It's kind of peaceful. It's the best kind of TV. I can meditate, can take in the beauty of something soulful, the water parting so beautifully for those baby fins and tiny bodies. To just soar through the water as if it weren't there. It seems like nothing, but what a weight it possesses.

It makes me think, rather than manipulate the total train of my thought. It sets me free, rather than lifting an invisible cage down upon me. It fills me with hope and love, and I am in there swimming too. What great TV! What a way to pass the time. There's not much on, but truly there is as much as I desire.

Life is Poetry

Oh, when the stars
Precisely are
Exactly where I left them before
If you must move them on
For a while
Please put them back
At last

Sparklehorse (February 3)

I was listening to Sparklehorse, on some mini bus with a special friend of mine, heading back from the Polish countryside to Wonderland. Yeah, so it was night now and darkness was consuming our little bus. Sparklehorse. I hadn’t listened to Mark Linkous’s project in years, not properly. He killed himself not that many years back. Now he was singing to me. I guessed he was as alive as I wished him to be. God, I wished him to be. His voice was eerie, broken, whispering to me (as if he was actually ghost while he’d been alive even), as if from some deathly place. He was amazing. I didn’t want to think too much what made him do that. I knew some people’s burden was just too much to take. I knew it. I could just cope with my own. Just. I believed to my soul that others weren’t so fortunate and escape was a saviour to them. It was sad, but it had some fucked up beauty to it too. Somehow. He was with me now. I was holding him in my heart. I nearly turned his album ‘Good Morning Spider’ off several times and put something else on. It was simply too good though. I let it play out, from start to finish. It was a perfect night companion. It was strange, different, gorgeous and tender and utterly shattered in parts (like a mirror on the floor, scattered everywhere, totally broken). I could feel him inside my heart. I didn’t know all of his work, and I hadn’t listened to this in a long, long time, so it was almost like a fresh piece of music to me, or some long lost jewel, but what a lovely collection of minutes we were sharing in that bus in the middle of some Polish countryside.

The Traffic Light Girls

Red, orange and green their coats were
They were the traffic light girls
Pretty young Polish things
Skipping through the streets
Trying to get to some place
At a canter
Smiles on faces
On this grey day
Sparks a-flying
And then they were gone
Probably forever
I hope they found their destination
Those three girls
Like a human trio of traffic lights
Lighting up the streets

Farewell, January Blues

Finally, she has departed. We can breathe a deep sigh of relief. Those first days of the year that see us all sink in gloom, that seem to give a backhanded smack after the warm hug of the holiday and Christmas celebrations has finally ended. February has arrived, and I feel a warm glow. The January Blues is well known to me. Unfortunately, it seems to loom greater than ever before with each new year that comes by.

It's my birthday tomorrow. A pause for contemplation. Getting a year older in a day, if that doesn't send one down a philosophical avenue then nothing will. I feel closer to death, to Death, my friend. I started blogging a year ago tomorrow. i'm still doing it, whether it reaches anybody or not. Practising my art. One day i might even be... no, it's too much to consider.

Just the word 'February' feels warmer. I took today off from work. I woke late and put music on, I read some of a book, took my time, grew into the day, had breakfast, took my medication and emerged from my little home. I walked along the river and into the streets of the place I still consider to be Wonderland and I found this little coffee house, my favourite in the city. I sat down, ordered a pot of tea, and I began to write. Everything is in place. All is beautiful, however it seems some of the time.