69.65.85.69

2008 07 17 2.20

Žodžiai, kuriuos ištariu, mintys, kurias galvoju ėmė turėti antrą, užslėptą prasmę. Paleidžiu sakinį ir tučtuojau noriu jį susigrąžinti: "Ne, atsiimu, norėjau pasakyti ne tą...". Pagalvoju ir suprantu, kad ne tai iš tiesų turėčiau galvoti.
Vėl, stebėtinai greitai, išsikrapščiau kažkur iš sielos gilumos tą tūkstančiais žodžių neapibūdinamą savijautą, kurią vos prieš metus sutalpindavau į vieną vienintelį prakeiktą ir beviltišką.
Pavargau.
Kodinis pavadinimas Nr. 261646.
Šiai savijautai pralaužti neužtektų ir begalybės žodžių. Kitą vertus (čia tikriausiai toji, užslėpta prasmė), iš tiesų būtų gana vos keleto. Tinkamoje vietoje, tinkamu laiku ir tinkamai ištartų.
Norėčiau gebėti ir tą tinkamumą užšifruoti skaitiniu kodu, kurį įvedus vėl būčiau žvali. Arba dangus giedras. Arba nebūtų karo.
T.y. galbūt norėčiau, kad pasaulį iš tiesų būtų galima apibrėžti skaičiais. Ir egzistuotų nuspėjamumo dėsningumas.
Tik tiek ir norėčiau. Nes vistiek žinau, kad tie dėsniai būtų žmogui neprieinami.
Kodas 261646
Nenoriu nieko. Nenoriu valgyti, miegoti, žiūrėti filmų, vaikščioti, gerti, rūkyti, keltis, rengtis, praustis, rakinti durų, siūti, rašyti, skaityti, žaisti, mylėtis, matyti, klausytis, girdėti, kalbėti, sėdėti, juoktis...
Nieko nenoriu ir tuo pat metu puikiai žinau, ko noriu iš tiesų.
Vėl ta dviprasmybė.
Prieš kelis metus Jis manęs paklausė, kada rašau. Kai esu laiminga ar kai ne? Tuomet net sustojau viduryje žingsnio nustebinta suvokimo. Niekada nerašau, kai esu laiminga. Jis taip pat.
261646
Nieko nenoriu, bet, visgi, egzistuoti noriu. Ir, baisiausia, ne tik dėl to, ko noriu iš tiesų. Egzistuoti trokštu iš kažkur giliai, giliau nei mintis, sąmonė ar pasąmonė. Egzistencijos serumas glūdi ten, skęsta nesuvokiamame sraute, versdamas proto kompiuterį paleisti programą vis iš naujo, net netikint jos reikalingumu. Žinutė ekrane neišnyksta: "It's not possible the other way."
I always write out of despair and, still, my words cipher the forthcoming cloudless future.
Dviprasmybė, ar aš Jums nesakiau?

2008 07 11 15.50

That night the rivers of the sky floated waters to one and only point. Their deltas adjoined in an ivory centre and there was no difference whether you'll trow a speck in the rise, near the banks or right into the delta, it would still surely reach the creamy spot where it all ends.
My spine revived as a dragon under the sky full of floating rivers. The dragon was covered in marble - green scales and had burning red mane, it's color reflecting in his eyes. It rose from my body, my slightly curved back, dissected the thick clouds hiding the waters and, shining in all his mightyness, dived straight into the ivory centre.
The moment when it's rough tail end dissappeared in the swirl I felt the tide painfully bursting within me. The water raging, all studded with emerald spikes, it was screaming and splashing until there were no dry spot all around.

The end came as suddenly as the start.
And after it there were only one thought left:
"Nothing changed."

2008 07 06 21.04

Those, who left, just don't fit his thoughts.
Those, aboarding the first ship that ever comes to their small creak.
Those, who name the reasons one after another:
The fish that went;
Their nets all rotten by the furious wind;
Fire, stealing buildings and their home;
A man lost forever to the sea.
Never the reason.
Never the reason it was for him, for Endrew of the Sands.
All of the reasons were written in his past, even in his face, his eyes.
But still he glared to those alining in the port.
counted their luggage and treir reasons of disgrace.
Even when the sand just took their village, their houses and treir port,
he used to come there and remember the faces of the ones, who left.
The never - forgiving mighty Sea God trapped in sands.
Until one someone decided to come back.
That someone, named Joanne, wanted it back. The village and the sea, the fish, the nets, the sand.
Her childhood stolen by the parents wish.
Instead, she found just him, drowning in black grudge, like their village in the sand.
He became her village and the sea,the fish, the nets, the sand.
Endrew was healed from unforgiveness.
Not instantly, after some years of curses and denial.
After admiting that not all things, that don't fit your thoughts, can't live banished from them.
In the end, he tranfered people from the book of those who left, to the book of those, who lived proudly in their village, swallowed by the sand.
And read the story to his children.
And their children children.
Always adding in the end:
"The only two highly floating things are your thoughts, reflecting in your future like a silhouette on water,
and the sand."

2008 07 05 01.20

Take all the white and soft wool
of a hundred sheep.
But not of those you count in mind
before reaching the land of dreams.
Just the ones
who carry your thankful thoughts
in the coldest polar winter nights.
Gather and pick
the dazzling August stars
right from the sparkling
sounding of the dark sky.
Then add a desperate holler
never drying inside the heart
with stream of words
all the same
for thousand and three days.
And don't forget the toughness
of a seaworthy diamond
glowing with a million shades.
And with all that,
however willing,
you would hardly fill
the debth of look
from, anticipating on the banks,
grey emerald seawaters
Fisherman's wife.