Wednesday, 29 September 2010


Thursday August 3rd, Oslo
See Kurt Cobains suicide letter on the back of someones t-shirt for the first time. Follow the girl around various shops trying to read it. Something about being moody. everybody here is blond and good looking. and all they wear is orange, my favourite colour.
© Thom Yorke
I walk around, plunging my hands deeper into the pockets of my jeans, as I let strands of my dyed blonde hair fall on my eyes. I don’t care much about the left as I can’t see that clearly and the bangs above my right are cut enough to see. So I go on, past the souvenirs, wondering how much time I have left for sightseeing.

I see a crowd of locals walk in, their heads blonde, not dyed or bleached out like mine, but natural, which catches my eye. Literally. But then I notice that more than half are blonde and the whole fucking theory of blonde hair as a dying gene floods away. I walk out the store, to see more blondes and I realize how fake I look.
Ridiculous, like a young kid trying to copy.

I shrug, feeling a curtain of depression take over me, as I go deeper into the orange crowd of Oslo.

To Boddah

Speaking from the tongue of an experienced simpleton who obviously would rather be an emasculated, infantile complain-ee. This note should be pretty easy to understand.

I struggle for half a second, as my eye looks down the orange shirt.

Kurt Cobain.

It’s his suicide note.

I open my mouth to call out the blonde girl in orange. Then even every black head dressed in pink, purple, black, white, whatever seems orange to me and every hair strand natural Oslo blonde. I follow her, my eyes scanning the next phrase. The girl turns into a book store and so does her orange shirt. I don’t catch a glimpse of her face but I don’t need to. I follow her, keeping a distance like a perverted stalker, watching his victim, plotting how sweet his plan could be.

I wasn’t deaf, even if I was three quarters blind. I watched her, kneeling down, as she’d make a quick turn that could reveal me, my hiding place and my intentions which could be easily mistaken by something not as harmless. Soon enough after buying some book which was in a language I didn’t understand, most likely local, she headed outside. I saw more blonde people, more orange bursting as if I was in some utopia surrounded by people with real blonde hair no need to dye and dressed in orange.

I liked orange it wasn’t as depressing as my nature, so basically it made me happy.

Fucking ridiculous.

The people were also good looking two, with no lazy eye, while the other remains wide open and they also seemed taller than me. Not that I care about my height. About my eye my parents told me when I first woke up with the eye patch on my eye, literally, I dubbed in two and cried my fucking kid heart out.

I’m a stalker.

I walk on, basically running as she speeds up as I get distracted by several Norwegian girls making faces at me. I don’t understand them as I do not consider myself good-looking with my lazy eye, unlike their most likely healthy ones and dyed hair unlike their natural. The suicide note girl turns left into another shop. I follow her to see it to be filled of antique useless, to me, stuff, but she studies it fascinated, her eyes sparkling as she grabs something older than the world itself.
The blonde girl stands still so it’s my perfect chance to read the note.

I fail, as she drops the object, breaking the fragile statue in two. I rush out of the shop as if I’m a culprit. I realize that I was running, running away, afraid as if I was the one who broke it, the culprit to her actions. But what did I do? All I wanted to do was read that note. That plain, stupid, brilliant note which Cobain left behind to us insignificant mortals, leading on life. Not like I was fucking suicidal and wanted to see how real suicide notes should be and what context should they hold, I think I knew before anyway.

Thank you all from the pit of my burning, nauseous stomach for your letters and concern during the past years. I'm too much of an erratic, moody baby! I don't have the passion anymore, and so remember, it's better to burn out than to fade away.

It burns my mind. What if our next album fails? What if we are a one-hit wonder, what if the sale charts lied? What if I’ll fade away? Should I burn just like Cobain did? Should I press a gun against my temple, feeling my right eye tremble, lips bit until blood fills the spit giving it a sick taste causing me to gag. I’m not brave enough to end my life, I’ll cry. Just like I did back when I got the eye patch, I’ll bend in two and fucking cry my adult, if you can call me that, heart out.

Then she walks out.







Then she turns her back on me, walking on, well, sideways that I make a quick rush as if I could miss my life, the train of fate. I stop at a nice distance that I’m not breathing into the girl’s neck in a sexy way and not as far that I’d have to guess what the words actually could be.

Peace, love, empathy.
Kurt Cobain

Frances and Courtney, I'll be at your altar.
Please keep going Courtney
for Frances.

Frances? His daughter. Right, for the rotting future generation. But then I’m no father. All I have is a girlfriend, who I actually do fucking love. But that’s just it. I follow her more, slowing up keeping up her pace only at a rather safe distance.

For her life, which will be so much happier without me.

Then I stop. That’s it.

That’s with what it all ends.

Love, passion, shagging, snogging and desire.

I watch her orange shirt go and mix into the crowd of the other attractive, blonde and orange wearing Norwegians.


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Tuesday, 28 September 2010

Papercut. Chapter 7.

I’m I single?

I am.

I am the word countless people tried to avoid, lying, staring at realization in the eye and playing a game of their own, creating their own, taken reality, now their tongue fighting inside their mouth.

Everything seems to scream go find somebody. As if it is the cure to reality. A big green pill as it is swallowed with closed eyes, laughter now stuck up in your throat with love’s illumination the relation with the mirror rather than an empty shell of a person, as your tongue is cut off.

Well, the fact that you were alone in the mirror now naked and exposed. But in general was it bad? It was. Agony and desire fills you up, ripping you from inside, asking you to find somebody to replace a beloved as if the person were dead. But dear, you have held the funeral, you were the priest. But what for? So that we could continue and new generations would be born repeating the path we chose only a more corrupted one now, as more genes were thrown into the bowl of disgrace.

Everything seems to be connected with birth and death. Death was just something to give more paths to the ones who were born. It was as if everything was made for more births until they’d explode.

What would happen on didn’t matter, just the fact that the endless circle of birth was continued, the process, the fact that there are births, there were births and there shall be births was that mattered. Did anything else matter here? No.

“I’m off, otherwise I’ll be late. See you.” Kayleen stands up giving me a smile and interrupting my depressive thoughts to which I was thankful. I thank her in my mind and head to pack my bag, which I didn’t do yesterday.

I take whatever I thought I’d need today. What was exactly that I need? I lean against the wall, watching my notebook stick out with several pencils, regular pens; gel pens some bursting with chaos, chosen colour pencils and an eraser. I stuck my hands in my jeans feeling a sharpened pencil against my thumb along with a eraser poking my middle finger and a bit of chewing gum left from yesterday. I’d usually shove it in m mouth randomly without any reason. No, I wasn’t a smoker maybe it was still left from when I was a kid and I’d used to go around making bubbles.

I took it out, stared, as I hear Kayleen shut the door with a thud and several clicks followed. Now I was locked for good and the keys in my other pocket were my savior. It seems so odd. Now the gum isn’t the target of my attention, now my keys were. Four letters formed a such poetic and now thanks to that banal.

Aren’t poets what make the words banal? Roses, blondes, long hair, blue eyes, sun, moon, shining sparkly stars, kisses, everything. But then, I look up to see a steak of my hair stare back at me.

Yup, I still was a dyed blonde.

Olive eyed.

Average height, right a bit above.

Oval shaped face.

Lack of freckles and not that bad skin.

Right handed.

Converse addict.

Split personality owner.

That word made me sick. I gag, the breaths heavy to achieve, feeling ground turn into lukewarm water, as the light above feels like a candle with the warmth, which is now blown out. Oh, how I hated it. I hated my ego. I can feel the lack of air, as he sucks it in, the room spinning around, everything was bright. Again. Once more.

Everything was annoying.

Laughs cover my ears.



Will that forever be the first freaking word I get in my freaking mind? I crack my neck, massaging it with my left hand, standing on my tiptoes as if I had been sleeping for quite a while.

Indeed, I was.

He’s been keeping me inside for quite a while.

Right, where were we?

God, I hate that word. We, we, we, we.

It’s always we. It’s never me. It’s me and well, him. Dun dun dun. Basically we both live in the same body, under the same fake golden locks, not all that glitters is gold and it glitters like a Christmas wrapper, under the same name, look through the same olive eyes, even if we look through them differently. I see the colours bright, as he has a dull tint, oh talk about personalities. Would the dullest person be colourblind then? But then gray is always at ease. Right, I grab that messenger bag of his and pencils fall from it.

Jesus, couldn’t he pack them and zip the damn bag? Idiot. So I fall on the floor and stuff everything which fell out of the bag, cursing at him.

Right, he didn’t think to do anything with the bloody walls. Figures. I rub my eyebrow with my index finger, staring at the dumb white in front of me. Fucking white.

I bite my finger, feeling anger build in me. I hate white. Everything about it. It’s absolute dumbness, the plainity of it, it feels as if I’m in a psychiatric clinic in white pajamas with my hands tied behind my back. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest on repeat. As if I am in a freak show, I see people point at me, laugh, as if I am a monster as if I wasn’t supposed to exist. Doctors coming back and forth. Saying what a good person Roman was.

Buy him a bouquet then.

I wasn’t.

I’m just a personality. I’m half of what he is.

I mouth those words and I glance at my hands.

I’m not nothing.

I raise my head and look at the dumb white that he adores.

I have paint.

I have his blood. I could cut his left hand, blood trickling down as I’d draw a sketch of him, his body hung.

Black, red, yellow, blue, pink, fuchsia, grey, purple, teal and orange.

I have oil, pastel, aquarelle, colour pencils and load more.

No razor.

I open his bag open and shake the remaining artistic things in it and feel myself give out a sob. I was tired. I grab a big black marker, oh the banality, and open its lid. I stare at the tip of it, bursting with ink or whatever it is filled with.

What was I going to do?

Scribble something on the walls? Curse at him? Call him a loser? What good will that do? Nothing. That’s right, nothing, nada. I close the lid, feeling a wave of sadness take over me.

I hate mornings.

I hate the sunlight. I hate the dumb sun shining so bright, hiding shyly In the clouds, such innocence as if the world was covered in fairy dust, calling the rain as people stretch their hands out to feel that blessing or the other way round hide under umbrellas afraid to get wet, as they continue to carry their sins.

I always stand under the rain, oh, the banality, praying, that the water won’t just soak in my clothes, washing away the drenched sins in the once made with purity fabric.

I feel the tingle in my right arm.


The ceiling.

I’m staring at it. I take my bag, rubbing the sleep of my eyes as I push the door open. I defeat the stairs with several jumps, thankfully without trips and greet the air outside. I breath in, feelings its light morning chill burn my nostrils as I breath in and out. He’s still holding my hand, rubbing the back of my palm with his thumb. I don’t bother to fasten my pace as I look around.

Nothing changed overnight, the houses are the same but now I see that the houses are actually not haunted. Well, maybe they are and in a while I shall see a ghost creep out of the window, moaning, its chill piercing the air, giving out its location. Would it want everybody to know that there he is, leaning the ghost-in-kids-mind’s? What if it is a man with an old fancy moustache and his arm is torn off that the holds it with his teeth his mad eyes following every single move of yours.

Or maybe it’s a female. Somebody who is heavily printed in your mind, screaming so that you wouldn’t forget her, calling out your name from her red lips, giving out a cackle which reveals her true form, her touch is felt as her fingertips travel across my forehead onto my side, stopping on my cheek, digging her nails into my flesh, smiling at the sudden pain coming from my stitched eyelashes, as I try to escape her blue gaze.


Nails like scissors, cutting our flesh in two, diving it, letting the blood spill onto the ground, feed it show the true essence of life. Birth by other death. Suck it. Choke on your sins, the weight now on your side, that you’ll be the drowner and I’ll yank you out, laughing as your lungs scream for air.

I dunk him.

Where he belongs, where he came from.


Let him drown in his life.

He made it, but now the weight upon his shoulders, that the one who gave him life
wants him back.

To give him another chance.

Like a beloved.

Then she lets go, hushing from while to while. Giving me a band-aid, a purple one with pink polka-dots. She knows everything. The devil, the angel within me. Then she leans forward, as I glance at her lips then back to her


I feel a sudden pain ring through my head. Lola.


Baby blue.

Slate grey.


Pitch black.

What was Lola’s eye colour?

They all go through my head like a flash leaving the asked question behind above the quote of the day.

Then I see a bright red drive past me and make a sudden stop.

Chapter 8

Wednesday, 22 September 2010


I lay there on the bed
The covers warm from my heat, my radiation
Coming from the body
From my thoughts
Filling the abyss
As a ringing is heard
Piercing eternity
I hear strange things
During the night
If I go to sleep
After the doors of beloved are closed
It's not an echo
But something
As if I were
The one who calls
Awaiting for an answer
As the mosquito bites
Taking the question from my lips
The sin, the grief
Of too many hours sleep
I hear two voices
One left
One right
Loud and clear
About death and moon
Syrup and sugar
Green and black
Two things which come and go
Which never cross
Eachothers paths
Like the hiss himself
Both low and strong
The ringing stops
The voices never heard
The mosquito full.


Monday, 20 September 2010

Papercut. Chapter 6.


The word echoes slow, soft, fast then strong. Quiet until it becomes louder causing me to stir awake from the dead as the dreams never remembered, the gap feeling erased and betrayed, as if it were a mute tune for a musician, in my head. Was it a female or a male repeating it? Or was it a simply faint echo of my inner voice? Or my muse perhaps? I opened my eyes before shutting them so hard, that pain hit my brain like cold water. I had to get up, saying that there was no alternative would be a big damn lie because there was. There always is. In this case it would be putting my head between the feather pillow and the hard mattress catching dust bunnies in my mouth. Afterwards I’d pull the covers and force or simply fall asleep, releasing them.

But no. I felt enthusiastic all of a sudden. Today was my day. I feel it. I could feel it in my fingers, feel it in my toes. I should stop the Love, Actually references and my sister pouring milk into her bowl, fingers dyed blue. They seemed to smell of home, but that didn’t put me down. Instead I sprung out of bed. Today was the today.

To forget home.

Today I need to find a job.

To get my sister out of my head. Along with the family and past failures.

Today I need to go to the university meeting which they were s’posed to postpone, but thankfully didn’t. I spent all day unpacking, waiting. No, no, I was waiting for this moment all of my life! All of my bloody life, I dreamt of going to that university, moving to this city. Which could come after long thoughts of denial. Here I am. Here I stand. See me laugh as I walk past the city streets with thoughts of homework flooding my brain against my endless tries. I’ll let it flood my brain. I’d welcome it with a tall latte. I’ll let homework keep me up. All that mattered was that I was here.

I was fulfilling my dream. At last. Finally.

Screw the fancy saying ‘the target isn’t the thing that matters, but the journey does’. The journey was over. Eternal bliss ahead. I was on the target stomping my feet all over the red x and I felt heaven. Everything was like nectar around me, which I drink greedily, slipping past my lips, past my chin, soaking my clothes to make my reality sticky and sweet. Everything huggable, kissable and lovable. Love and happily ever after past and possible. I didn’t care that I had to take the bus nearly to every single destination I wanted, which meant the city centre. I am here.

I am here.

I am here.

I am here.

The words echo in my brain, I mouth them, I say them out loud, I even felt a sudden urge to yell them, but the thing was I don’t care how much I repeat them. The meaning was the same and the meaning was the thing that mattered to me more than anything. The core was now believing and giving a high five to the fortune telling subconsciousness.

I spring out of bed quickly. I don’t bother with the covers and just leave my bed untidy. I wanted to get out of my room and the luring desire to start this new day fills me like some light shinning from above, as poetic as it sounds. Today was a special occasion, but I think my usual appearance didn’t really hint that. My usual white, my usual choice which was some random pair of jeans and my faithful dark blue converse awaiting me downstairs.

I run downstairs, like some small kid excited about a party, like a teenager excited about his upcoming date with the girl he fancied, like a girl getting married. Oh, there were so many occasions, but much to my dismay, in life they weren’t ever day. Now they will be. I storm into the kitchen, ignoring the thud which resulted as the door and wall exchanged a kiss.

Filled with passion.

Full of lust and agony.

“Goood moooorning!” I say to nobody in particular and see Kayleen raise her head above the open fridge door. Her facial expression was opposite to mine’s. I can’t help but grin at her with a mad look in the eye. I feel like taking her face in my palms and give her a so-called broken kiss. I hate and love that name at the same time. As if I’d waltz with it. But then maybe she won’t smile back at me. Maybe she’ll give me a confused stare? A slap? To break my cheek, the broken puzzle now upon the floor as I look up to feel her laugh. Oh, I’d love to find out but instead I grab some bread and fiddle with the toaster before turning it on. The button is big and orange, but my mind is focused on finding a simply purple one.

Then I stop as I wait for the bread to literally become toast. What if this was banal? What if my greeting was banal? What if this would end up in the choking vortex of banality? What if this slowly turns into something daily? I ate toast every day back home in the morning trying to mute reality with my headphones, eyes blank staring and closed underneath a shower of falling stars burning my skin and dreams to accept to consider them possible as the stars become softer and brighter as I shall step inside. I heard my sister rant, my parents argue sleepily about what to do in the evening as their children’s brains rot due to the big amount of endless homework. What was banality in general?

Was I just repeating everything here which I want to run away from? I look down at my scarf, its intense mossy green glaring back at me for describing it banal in my head.

I shake my head and the scent of burned bread hit me that I turned it off in haste. Doctor, the patient is alive and eatable. I smile, proud, taking the bread and opening the cupboard. Where I just put it yesterday. I take out that godlike jar of marmalade, grinning slightly. It was my turn to go and get the groceries, while Kayleen cleaned the house slightly, aside from my room. Our rooms were still off-limits to each other to clean as we were parents afraid to enter a teenager’s room stashed with porn in their own heads, leaking out, blocking out reality with no exact feeling. I guess it was fair, but I had to force myself after bringing two full bags of supplies.

“So… that boyfriend of yours, how long have you been dating?” I ask aloud, taking a bite of my toast watching her fall on the chair besides the table, sleep summoning her into the city of dreams with Mr. Kayleen. The girl ruffles her hair, glancing at me and presses her hand against her cheek, expressing her tired state, desire to show the lack of sleep and racing disturbing thoughts which may lie behind the door or straight if I’d look through the marmalade jam to see what I expect to see and grasp what I have to grasp to find and swallow wishing to reach the eyes. The question didn’t seem to startle her, instead she takes a small gulp of her tea and leans her head back, a small smile appearing on her lips. Her light eyes look up, as she laughs without a single sound, recalling some memory most likely spent with that unknown lad.

Unlucky. Me.

“Quite a while. Never really counted.” Her last phrase ends up in a faster speed than she’d usually talk, hinting that she was lying, but not like I minded. After all who was I? I was her roommate nothing else and I certainly did not expect her to blur out everything at once with a giant crappy eraser, no matter how much I liked gossiping in the mornings. I have absolutely no idea why, maybe I was a gossip girl in my past life, I don’t know.

I smile at her feeling relaxed. I take another bite of my toast, feeling full. I never really enjoyed breakfast straight away, I loved to sneak out of school and run to the nearest Starbucks and grab something there and have what I truly called breakfast missing algebra and greetings to a complete concrete world. But for my first breakfast, my love for toast and marmalade makes its way to my stomach without really questioning me, fulfilling its meaning of life.

“I… broke up recently.” I pause, trying to cooperate with what I was going to say. Then Kayleen’s curiosity woke her up, as her eyes focus on me, trying to get as much information about my personal life. Maybe she’ll blackmail me later, I don’t know. I glance at her, trusting her fully. Stepping over the awkward line into an awkward place, where if she sees Lola, she’ll get it.

“I was jealous, tired, annoyed, never really understood that actually. I think I saw her flirting. Maybe she was two-timing me. Maybe I was. In my mind, my thoughts never describing the ideal loyalty. But then, I think the thought of university, being grown-ups clouded us and the fact that we were high school sweethearts was kind of un-cool. You get cool boyfriends and girlfriends in uni. I’m not sure, too many theories what happened then. Actually… I don’t remember the exact moment.” My voice cracks at my last phrase, headache, a hand upon the back of my neck, slowly taking off my scarf with such tenderness, because I had gone too far. I wasn’t technically myself then. It was me, only, I was aggressive, I wanted her out of my life then. I had been holding my anti-muses hand then, fingers intertwined, grapes to be fed in hand and the lawn green underneath my anti-muse’s feet and underneath Lola’s as well.

And I succeeded, much to my dismay.

With the green under us all. As the grapes would be shared.

“Oh.” Kayleen said chewing on my past relationship with Lola spitting it to find her own long lasting one, even if I did not know if the duration a lie or not. Maybe he wasn’t even real? But then I glance at her spacing off to another memory. He wasn’t. I was no fool, I know what’s it’s like to smile dumbly, look above, laugh hysterically, bite your bottom lip and just be happy due to the fact that you are together or not, but the feeling fills you, maybe like a parasite, like some weird drug, but you can’t deny the fact what it is. And the dumb thing is that you feel proud of it. Up to the point that you can wear a badge saying taken, not because you’re not single, but because you’re there and the person knows it.

Freaking proud as endless happiness fills you, closing all of the previous deeply cut wounds and holes.

But I can’t help but not smile. I am jealous, yeah, I am, only in a damn good way. I mean who would deny the fact that they don’t want to be loved? I couldn’t help but glance at her from while to while. Oh, how jealous I was. She’d bit her lip from while to while as endless memories flood her. I couldn’t help but feel the hole inside me go wider, begin to suck in my morning mood.

The bitter question hanging off my lips as if I could ask a mirror and get a stare back, my split-personality laughing, ruffling my hair.

Was I single?

Chapter 7

Saturday, 18 September 2010

Papercut. Chapter 5.

“Roman, you ok?”





It echoes through out my brain, as if I got hit in the head by everything and its spinning heavily. I feel my head pulse, as if it’s about to blow, it starts to spin, but then the pain eases leaving me rather dazed. But myself.

What happened? I blink trying to recall the past few minutes. The gap huge, as if it might fall into it to fill it with some stupid excuse. It feels like somebody took the past minutes with a memory eraser and rubbed hard, hard, pressing into my memory and rubbed so hard, nearly leaving a hole.

“I’m just exhausted. Sorry. Several sleepless nights in a row.” I gave out a small smile. Liar. It sounds of out place, out of character, but then, we all are. People like saying that we all have masks we put on and barely reveal ourselves? But then, who reveals themselves now? To friends? So they’ll blur out everything being drunk or not? To a lover? Love doesn’t last, it’s everywhere, I get bored, the girl gets bored. Family?

I stopped on that. I never really opened up to them. They knew I love drawing, but the phrase, saying it out loud came to me in years. They could see me sketching in a corner with homework piling though. I knew that, I just didn’t want to open. I wanted something for myself as kids are the topics of gossip in families because their lives are so empty and dull, repeating the same crappy job they got shoved into, that they require to steal a glimpse of a not failed life. Yet. I let them think what they wanted, I knew that they saw it as a useless hobby. But to me it was everything, I ended up even opening tubes of oil paint just to feel the smell, dipping my nose in the paint, imagine how my brush would feel against the canvas. I was obsessed with oil painting rather than anything else. Tracing my fingers in it.

Circles, squares, rectangular.

But then back to the masks with the people standing in them. If you take everything away, what will you see? What’s the point. No, no, I’m not sounding all pessimistic. The masks are the person, the personality, you can’t just take them off leaving an empty, screaming, dying, begging and pleading self, can you?

Revealing the hidden vanity and fear of dying. The desire to be in this world, as the other had never been touched by a man.

Vanity our true essence as we dance with birth.

The word just goes around by itself. We created it. We tore off those masks which people desired to get rid off and end up with what we truly are.

She just nodded and was gone with a small bang.

Did she have it as well?

Then I press my back against the wall.


As if a light breeze passed by, taking my memories with it. No, I did not secretly took drugs in a millisecond and there was no cig between my lips, its tip in the process of chewing as I’d light it to inhale. Then I’d breath out the smoke slowly, watching its own mix with the one coming from my mouth. What about drugs? Never took them, but I guess the idea could have crossed my head some day when I’d feel my anti-muse grab me by the collar or when I was alone without any of them. Screaming for inspiration. Climbing on the walls, grasping the ceiling, seeing white instead of patterns.

All artists used drugs or drunk maybe some went without plain cigs, but I went without anything of that. What for? To kill myself before I’d get bloody rich and see Branson pout at my own beach house. I choked when I saw him running around in cribs grinning from ear to ear. I’d grin too if I had my own freaking island and a beach house like that. Lucky. Why give us a reminder? We are self-obsessed enough. I’d add bastard, but the word doesn’t seem to collide with the president of Virgin here. I was proud of him and happy for him, so I doubt that I’d stalk him with a CD and choke him with it or poke him until death.

Seriously, I never really felt jealous for anybody having something more than me. I mean, I am jealous in a good way, in a damned happy way that I wish them better. I’d wish them to have the mask on forever. Who knows if its likewise, but then you can’t just know absolutely everything in life can you? Then… you’d go freaky and Wikipedia would go bankrupt and you’d be everybody’s Wikipedia. Everybody either asking you or you’d lay killed and forgotten. Wait, won’t that make hell loads of money?

I just asked from Mr. Wikipedia himself. Maybe I should go and learn Wikipedia, in my other life, where my abilities and addictions to art will be unfairly taken away. That’s sad. Maybe this is the only life I’ll ever get to paint. Maybe I’ll be, no definitely, something else, something more radical or boring. Like some award winning doctor who is great at surgery and if I ever find out that in my past life I was an artist, I’d go ‘huh? What the hell are you talking about?’ Well, exactly like I go now. Maybe that’s the reason, why we die, it’s something so shocking, that we cannot hold it, as death whispers it into our ear after the final grasp of air.

You’ll die at 76 being a housewife.

What the hell I’m I actually blabbering about?

Now, I had to deal with something completely different, something glaring at me. My luggage was glaring at me, ready to explode due to the amount of clothes stuffed inside for any possible weather, as if it would be under -20 all the time with a thick layer of pink snow causing me to question why did I need such a large amount of wool sweaters, but then I was quite the freezing type and if I felt down I’d feel cold and practically wrap myself around the biggest amount of wool possible. Wishing I was a sheep and dumb as two. Well, I’m not the first.

But then where actually are you the first? Everything was done before you, over fifty percent of the person’s thoughts were in the head before leaving a small spot for the new and borrowed from other lives literally. What was new? What was extraordinary? What made me first? The red oil I used frequently was surely a favorite colour to other artists. Why was I special?

The thing is I was special. I was. To myself. Oh, the vanity. With that I opened my bag and took out some clothes.

Then I began ruffling through my clothes, as if I was desperately searching for something. I did not know what, but I could feel ‘home’ stuck in my throat, the other home, the one which I wanted to cut out disgracefully, but then what did it do besides build roughly what I was and nearly destroyed what I’d be? I stopped, with my hand stuck between a bright t-shirt I took for no whatsoever reason. I exhaled slowly, I took them out. Everything which would give me the faintest hint of remembering Lola. Did I want to forget her? I tried to swallow the memories, but I couldn’t. I don’t know what I felt, I just felt weird. Was she a drug? Was she a machine? Was I one? Was she a detail? Maybe I made her up? But no, I could still remember her laugh piercing myself, her confused stare and shout. Oh, that shout.

I gave out something which seemed to resemble a squeak and I held my knees close to my chin, wrapping my arms around them as if I was a wrapper holding my childish naivety inside, trying to become invisible. To let time go past me, leave me here, as if I never was to be there, tasting the end and spitting on it. I was so tired. I was sick, sick of reality. I need to sleep. For eternity. Maybe then I’d greet the morning light with a smile maybe I’d wake up happy, pleased… exhausted instead of feeling its light burn my frown converting it into a grin.

Why was the morning light was so magical, so intense until I grasp the star in the first inhale to let it ease the night to greet the day with a dumb hello and goodbye as the cover will be pulled upon the dark to remain until it drills a hole as the day shall scream and bleed forming the clouds of sanity to grasp? I stood up and pushed the curtains open, letting the light fill up the room. It hit the room, devouring the shadows where they wanted to be, holding everything by the throat. Then turn now for a mere second, forcing them to be where they were supposed to at this time of the day.

Maybe morning was like the light at the end of the tunnel, the symbol of that blank canvas, the time where besides from several occasions I wouldn’t… change, where I looked brighter, where I believed that not everything was gone with a huge final grip to lose once more. I felt an urge to poetically press my face, my lips, my hands against the cold window to kiss it, to express the narcissism as I’d see the reflection and the neighbors gossip upon my tongue, as if I were an exhibitionist, as if to feel the light take over me, take away that darkness, ease the pain.

Only it wasn’t possible.

What did I want?

What was it that desired?

Popularity, to see people point at me, surprised, pleased expressions plastered on their faces, their eyes eating, tearing, chewing, spitting, vomiting me over the fact, that they had seen somebody who was known and sparkly.

Love? Did I want Lola back? Did I want to see her look up, her eyes in a familiar, given lull, thinking of something she never told me? She had billions of ideas racing through her head, as she’d tell them to me with her eyes shining brightly. That was what we needed with the hand in hand. More people like that, to the core optimistic, egoistic, demanding everything out of life, struggling out of every possible situation and chewing on the rest, laughing as looks would flood the reality we once took over.

For looks to describe.

For looks to burn and be read, as I’d paint and grasp that they were not about me,
but my essence and presence.

I could see her, smiling from ear to ear, ruffling her hair, the dark dyed tones of her nails, wondering out loud, holding a conversation with herself trying to understand the secret behind my frown and the asymmetric grin of her as she’d grasp my cheek and kiss my upper lip, the bottom swollen from yesterday’s fight upon the stars as I’d try to grasp and eat and stare with a vegetarian. Then she’d tilt her head, blonde steaks falling over her face, touching her cheeks, her lips, her jaw line. Then she’d whisper that everything was alright and kiss me. Liar.

The last two words echoed throughout my broken brain. How long was it? It was… a day. I gave out a sob without any tears as a sigh of realization. I was shaking again. I was exhausted. I was tired. I wanted to end it all. Without a snip. Memories, images, feelings were clouding up myself, chocking me. I pulled my scarf, as if it was the culprit. It wasn’t.

I was so clingy. I’d do it and then wear the burden, a second skin of regret towards everything I did.

Memories. There were so many I couldn’t just erase them, delete them, watch them fade into nothing. I wouldn’t allow it and I couldn’t do it. Did I love her? Was it love? Something I could get rid of. A heavy contrast to that what people explained it as, a big gap in your soul, sucking you in like a black hole shredding you apart until nothing was left. Sucking the life out of you. Was it the parasite we were fighting against the passion the other belief, the religion, the only rock in the way to immortality we always wanted to take with us? Was the closest ally our main foe? The passion which caused us to grasp the beloved’s hand?

I could let it go. The thought scared me sometimes when everything remained still, no passion, no longing.

But then I’m saying that because I’m depressed. Because I can rub it off. Soon that frown will be replaced by a smile, my ego will come, do some stupidity and then I’ll sigh and fix its mistakes. I smiled at that thought. It seemed… so familiar. It felt as if I was still me. True, I was going to take the break-up depression pill, but it wasn’t the end of the world.

Not yet.


Laughs. Smiles. Giggles.

Sun. Boy. Son. Mum. Dad. Such a showoff, the painting there/ head falling apart.

Dark brown hair falls in curls around his face.

That’s right, I had chestnut hair. Echo.

Blah. Only not that dark tone.

“I love crayons. I mean it’s so fun!”


That’s not my voice.


The boy exclaims, his voice deeper than mine was when I was seven as his hazel eyes shine. Bright.

I don’t have hazel eyes. Green. Blue. Red.

Because that’s not you.

Nor me.

They hug him proudly, /love, affection/ I see my sister grin in curiosity observing his abstract painting with colours bursting from side to side forming some unknown shape in the middle. He seems to be attracted to everything abstract.


I love abstract stuff. The kid has style.


I hate abstract stuff. I mean look a seven year old kid can draw the same abstract crap like a forty year old egoistic creep can.


They love him a lot, they love me a lot. But I’m sure my eyes are olive, hell with the hair colour maybe it was as dark. They all pull together in this teletubies big hug and laugh, and smile proudly at their son, me.

I love laugh.

Are you sure it’s you?


I see his face, he is looking directly at me.

Hello again.

He’s not me.


I stirred in my sleep. I’ll never be him. I’m just a broken fragment, a shard, letting him leak out the insanity to make him as innocent as a feather, a banality as he’d go on to get hold of Lola again, leaving me in the corners, as it once were, once, of something, filling that pessimist, making him more confident in the face of other. Ruining him on another. But then, I want to break out free. I opened my eyes seeing the endless pitch black surround me. Nail varnish? What change was it, to look at the black ceiling or at the back of his black surrounded in the same thing waiting for a glimpse of the outside, the morning, the day faking that I was him? I was like a parasite, who mocked him behind his back, because once I’d see him, I’d lose words, just stare, but I’ve been able to speak up in the past years, get hold of him, as he loses consciousness, I never even acted like him, I pretend that in my head, knowing that when I break loose I spoil my plan.

Maybe if I’d act for a while, I’d form whole with him, eating him, devouring his existence and replacing it fully with my own, making him the unwanted ego. Him, the one to admire and watch my life with some popcorn, amused, boredom never taking over, as it once took me, when I chop a few things off. But then maybe he was the ego, the parasite only who was winning..? Maybe he was the one who tied us both up, releasing himself, leaving me to sleep until I woke up, my dreams gray and dull as his were bright, red and filled with a certain blonde, fated.

Chapter 6

Wednesday, 15 September 2010


With a surprise.

To leave the mouths hanging, as the arms are raised the head tilted up and sugar poured into the mouth until I choke.



Leave with an illness, a cough, puffy eyes and a dull ‘see you tomorrow’, showing the pictures of a possible tomorrow.

The talk show, the burnt toast, the synthetic orange juice, metal bread and gooey knife stuck in the heart.

The eyes are opened by someone, as if I were a fly with the legs curled up and organs rotting.

My arm lies touching the floor, a smile, sunken cheeks and green skin.

I must remind myself of an alien.

I tilt up the head, running my hands as the tears fall and I grip my face harder, leaving bruises, as the door gets kicked open to the smell and failure.

I sob.

I kiss myself goodbye.

The lips salty, reminding narcissism, but hey, I spend my death with a person I loved, a person I submit to the dead, the others dragging me, as I wished, to be taken away, people who I didn’t know mourning, people crying, people dying, because I did.

The hurricanes, the heat, the victory, the failure, the gold, the boredom, the delight of the sunken who grip upon us laughing as we make out with ourselves openly, admitting our love, our dislike to all humanity, our belief in innocence, our cult of virginity, rather losing it passionately instead of pleasuring ourselves to death, muting our screams into a pillow but instead we bite shoulders just to watch them bleed and rot, sinking our teeth deeper, faking a numb pain which we feel

Because they don’t.

As soon as they do, we come.

We grasp the braid, hang it upon the neck covered in red marks, acne, bites, scratches, cuts and leave it.

We know when we die.

We say see you, because, fuck, you’ll die too


And you’ll fucking think you are the world.


Sunday, 12 September 2010

Papercut. Chapter 4.

Then I stood up, wondering where my room was. I wondered if she chose a room for herself, if it was pink,




Duh, of course she did. After all, she was here from yesterday, unlike me. But I guess we would still be labeled newbies, only I’d have the tag longer for a day.

“Oh, the rooms are upstairs.” She said with a nod towards the staircase, which was directly in front, as if the hall was cheating its way upstairs only with the doors leading towards the kitchen and the living room. I’d be lying saying that everything was huge and by the looks of it, neither the upper floor would be. I made a quick peek into both rooms as she lead the way, expanding the imagination.

Couch. TV. Bookshelves some filled with books, some empty waiting to be filled with my own. A big fat window behind the Television looking rather out of place and covered by some dark coloured curtains, which most likely were left by the previous owner, like the couch, the beds (well there were bound to beds upstairs right?) and the rest of the furniture. Yes, the living room.



My curiosity got me to open the kitchen door to see what I actually expected to see. Again the big window, the curtains were open, lazily letting the morning light in, covering the table and giving it a soft glow despite its old look. The cupboards seemed to be brand new and rather shiny, sparkly, I guess. I didn’t bother looking for the fridge because it was opposite of me near the window. The oven and microwave didn’t seem to hint anything special and they were plain yet a must for every kitchen.

Then the stairs. Damn them, as I felt myself feel the sleepless night lure into a certain door, as I dragged my luggage up. I exhale, reaching the top rather soon, that I didn’t even complain and I barely cursed in my head. I just feel tired, that’s it. I need to rest against the pillow, my eyes closed, letting dreams wash out the airport labeled thoughts.

Then we skip a door upstairs which I expect to be Kayleen’s room, but I didn’t bother the skip. I mean I felt the need to get to my room now. Then with a wide grin, the red head kicks the door open, looking rather epic and walks inside. She throws her arms in the air, feeling herself laugh lightly. There was no need for introduction this was my room. The small balcony, but I wasn’t a smoker, but still I like to go out into the night, as if I was taking an oxygen break and the bed which would soon be covered in clothes before I’ll stuff them into my closet in a rather rough and rude way, as if they took over me, adapting their roughness after the laundry. Closets were empty, waiting to be filled, but not bothering with their empty state, an indifference echoing, building up in the idle room.

The walls were an ironic white, like the white spare canvas I had with me, if I’d want to draw straight away and begged for my teenage posters or just random sketches which I’d like and take off and on after a while. But then I had several sketches which had been hanging for years, reminding me of something, which I hold dear.

Lola’s portrait.

It hung directly above my bed.

To naively believe in something bright.

Now there was no need to draw another one or hang the same one. Did I rip it? Did I give it to her? I had so many portraits of her. She took them smiling. I saw her admiring them. Unlike me, she was in love with herself and she was always above everything, sparkling as she went on. Something I never learnt how to do.

“You have a girlfriend? I have a spare frame. Well, gift, didn’t know what to get you. You can like, you know stuff your and hers photo or something. Or your dog, cat, boyfriend, friend, family. Whatever.” She laughed, giving me a present box with a big blue bow.

“Um, no. Single.” The sound of killing paper. Are you dating? Is that some kind of secret cult which girls always have? But then, guys as well, gossip, say ooh even if it’s your own sister. I mean it’s always about ‘hey, do you have a girlfriend?’, but then a friend of mines bothered to ask girls that only the other way, about boyfriends I mean. But I mean seriously, if I have a girlfriend, that makes me in the taken list and shoved away. But then I never really wanted to cheat on purpose, well, depends if it meant cheating with my canvas which I can do rather often.

I can send everything to hell, asides from when my muse visits me and she controls me, screams in my head, demands to draw the picture I have in my head. Wanting to leak it out to expose. Sometimes hard to hold inside, the screaming picture, before it goes violent.

My muse?

Oh, she was different. I couldn’t tell her appearance, as if she covered her long face with her hands, hair covering her hands, but I felt her presence. I always waited for her, luring her with music. She liked me, sometimes she did not. Sometimes I was the master yanking her by the hair, forcing her to stay with me and greet the morning light with me. But then she’d have her revenge and make her sister visit me, the anti-muse, which came in the muse’s disguise, came with my other self.

My evening self.

They love each other. They loved throwing around paint, tearing sketches apart then they glue them into an insane collage and laugh the rest of the night gossiping about my personal life, laughing at my decisions. The collage was me, bits of white canvas, blank paper, half finished portraits, random sketches and paint thrown on them like an overdue icing, rotten outside, hiding whatever was on the inside. But then in the morning it would fall down, flip and show the inside.

My confused self.

The fear of changing.




Other self.

My anti-muse.

Their love.

They match.

Perfect corruption.

Then I feel a small shiver run down my spine. I nod, thanking Kayleen for the frame. I stared at it. It was as blue as the wrapping paper and the bow were. What should I put there?

I was thirsty.

I kept biting my lip trying to get hold of myself. A luring blackness appearing in the corners of my vision, a brush of the fingers against my forehead. I feel arms wrap themselves around me. I press my head against his chest, as I fall, he is holding me close.

Telling me, it’s alright.



That’s stupid, that’s irritatingly stupid. Who paints the fucking walls a pearl white as if it were the teeth in a toothpaste ad? Ugh.

That’s banal.

I look around, chewing on my bottom lip, thinking what to do with the annoying white paint. I could scrape it off with my teeth. I look at the red headed girl in front of me. She’s cute. She really is. Now, this what do I have here? Huh? A frame. A dumb blue frame. Oh, right, gift, present, act of gratitude, sympathy that I have to pay half the rent, it was screaming out let’s be friends but not more.

Just friends, eh?

I raised my brow at her. I can throw it at her. See shards of glass cut her skin, blood dripping down her elbows, tears trailing down her cheek. I’d dye them red, trailing them with my fingers. I smiled at that thought. Curiosity seemed to take over her for a minute. Was I thankful? Did I enjoy that bloody frame? No. But I could show some gratitude, later as the screen would turn off. I grinned at myself.

“I’m glad you liked it. I really am.” Blue eyes keep avoiding me, as a small blush crosses her cheeks. There’s no need to yell out ‘just friends’ in this frame, sweetheart, even if you put sprinkles on it lying that it’s a cupcake, with those open eyes. But then getting me something more personal would make her easy. She doesn’t seem like to type to go all the way on the first date. But then that makes it more challenging. I have more than a year. Why not stretch out the fun?

Isn’t it fun? Building the agony in the girl’s eyes, watch her beg once you get bored, jealous with the phone calls of defeat and see the following boyfriends, as you’re the one on the pedestal. Then if I feel like it I give her a date, a kiss whatever crosses my mind. I never really hold myself, why should I? Life is given once and chopped in half. And apparently… that other thing, the one which doesn’t let me party, seems to dislike me.

Comparing my paintings to nothing?

I shot him, when he tore the painting with his teeth in half, as I’d see his hair go darker, eyes now hazel.

I myself was shrinking, a blonde dye now draining the brown. I’d lean against him, the scarf tight, begging for him to stop. He didn’t.

I dyed my hair back.

We both did, smiling as he got the timetable out, cut it in half carefully with sparkly green scissors, blow a bubble out of it. Back when we were naïve.

I strangled him.

He ran away, the fabric of the scarf in my hand.

I drowned him.

He came back, eating a kit kat.

“Well, if you need me, I’ll be in my room. I still need to, uh..” She made a pause. Kayleen didn’t need an excuse. I don’t think she’s dumb, my gestures are different from good boy’s here. Kayleen felt it, the absence of Roman’s presence. Well, no big deal. She ran a hand threw her hair stopping on a short steak and playing with it for a while. “..unpack, actually. Since I just came here yesterday and all.”

Why didn’t you, though?

I noticed that note in her voice. Did I space out as I changed? Did I faint? Did I chant? Did I sing the Pokemon theme with my arms around my knees, eyes closed? Did I strip and quickly dress afterwards three times in a row? I just change and that’s it, well asides from the small tingle in my right hand. I smiled at her. Oh, I’d love to make you beg for my attention. Then the red head turned towards the door.

“So, do you have…” I paused with my mouth open, making a sound with my tongue. The blue eyed girl turned around and interest was plastered on her face, as if she tore it soon enough. I was flirting with her and I wasn’t hiding it. “…a boyfriend? I told you about my current lonely and broken heart status. You?” I tilted my head, making eye contact.

“Oh. I’m taken, sorry.” Kayleen said it proudly, jerking her head up, as if she was holding that trophy or the medal was shining brightly on her chest. Was it a teasing smile? Did it mean, get me, Roman? Because, sweetie, mark my words, I will. Nobody ever escaped this form, my other self, the kid, barely has any fun asides from painting. I mean I paint too, but fun is better. I try hard not to smirk, feeling the weight upon the image of myself as a small tingle in my right arm.

Chapter 5

Wednesday, 8 September 2010

Papercut. Chapter 3.

Did I prepare a speech? Did I? The syllables cross my mind, letting me rest from embarrassment as the word ‘cute’ echoes in my brain. Suddenly I fell guilt take over me. I had no idea what to ask. The moment impossible, never coming as days came, the hanging people with no dreams to achieve, luring, closing my eyes with the possibility of having the mouth shut as well. I mean, I believed, I prepared. But all I did was think about everything in general. Would I find a job? I should shove that topic away into the corners of tomorrow because today is unpacking day, how fun! As if I will. And I have other problems to solve at the current moment. It seemed as far as the end of the world or global warming. I mean let’s look clearly should I be thinking about global warming right now? Oh, God, bad example, I suck at arguing, I think of the weirdest arguments which lead me into being the so-called loser. And I kept thinking about my future class.

Mrs. Posh Queen Bee, Mr. Druggie, Mrs. I love Marlboro, Mr. I draw socks better and I should rule the world with my cow socks and tons of other fascinating students. And of course the poetic change which really does feel like a second chance at life with plastic surgery (not that I had), but it felt that my oval face was new and saying what’s up? Nobody here knows if I have a gf if I have ever seen some rock star buying aspirin first thing in the morning after a rough night. I mean I can be anybody! I can even be the prime minister in disguise. Not that I want to, but still.

Can I be Ronald McDonald? I always wanted to work in McDonald’s when I was kid thinking that I’d get all the fast food all day long and for free. And guess what? Everybody has a weird childhood.

Everything was oddly different in one way and pathetic, identical in the other, I felt like a useless clone which ended up being a celebrity leaving the past behind in the shadows. I mean my city never was that big to begin with. But then, I think that my hometown beats the population and perhaps the size of the city where I currently am which I will now live, breath, eat, drink, multiply in. But then my city was just like a gray spot on the globe and this one is a big deal with the capital B and D. So welcome to the B and D, I thought smiling inside my head to that thought.

A bright sun alone.

So technically the more I thought, the more I realize that now, yes now I was here. I kept echoing that in my head a lot, like dropping a bucket of cold water above my head. I was here, now, I was here. I wished for this for so long, for that university. The thought wouldn’t leave me as if it were a reminder to calm myself down, because I was here. I had no fear of ending up somewhere where I would not want to. Of course, now I had to hold myself from screwing up, I was here, but still. I was here. I should focus instead of chanting in my head like it was some prayer.

Maybe I kept repeating that because I am scared?

I am.

I am afraid that this is a dream and soon that relaxing cold water will turn into ice cubes, hit my head, cut my skin, let blood pour out, exposing myself to the reality. A lost thought, a lost memory, hidden and forgotten, now unnecessary as the future is grasped. That’s not my reality. This is my reality. This is my home?

It is.

I am home. Here I am, sitting near the door with an amazing dumb smile plastered on my face, staring at Kayleen, Converse, Kayleen, Converse, closing the door Kayleen, Converse on the floor forgotten with the shoelace untied and then we made eye contact once more.

I am… home?

Am I?

As if to check I jerk my head up, right, left, down like an idiot, trying to consume the fact that I am home. I didn’t feel complete as if there is something was missing, as if there was a risk to fall, to fall down and not see that small light which kept me going, that small root sticking out which I grip rather tight, deadly afraid to let it go and be swallowed. Swallowed? By what? By failure, that after all these years and all those endless contests, medals and everything which would lead me here. I even felt different, I could feel myself inhale the air.

It was different. All I had to do was exhale the fear, not the homesick for that home, for my parents and inhale something which would make me homesick for this, for this home, for these yellow stripy walls, for that wooden door, the gray mat which I now sat on and for the rest of the house which I had not seen, but was brightly shown on the memories of tomorrow.

I had to believe, I had to realize, and I had to celebrate. I was here.

I was paying half the rent.

I was getting a job.

Above that…

I had the billions of dreams, like doors, now I was standing in front of them. It was as if today was my lucky day, my first step only I was sure that there would be no hard falls, no broken bones, scars like the ones once grasped. The painful ones now in the past, soon to be forgotten, soon to slowly fade and to be remembered with a uneasy laugh and morphing into a soft, easy laugh leading to a smile, to be a reminder. That I did it.

It was like a treasure box at some time, buried once, forgotten twice, which I kept unlocked, throwing impossible wishes under a lock of fate, until I could open them, afraid that I’d let them slip away from me if I’d open them, yell out my dreams, the possibilities I desired to have.

And now, the treasure chest blasted open, throwing the dreams straightly at me, going past me, no, going inside me, going deeper, filling me with golden hope. They kept running threw my head, as if they were a long forgotten friend.

He was telling me things I was bound to fight for, but leaving them there, as if fighting without the target but knowing the great reward, not knowing the amount of money, but knowing that there was going to be loads of it, allowing me to dive in it, let it hold me down to the bottom where the past was the sky. Unreachable and long gone.

Now the imaginary friend, which I considered to be my fantasy, which I believed very deep down, he, my sweet friend, was real. Now he was more than real, we were having a chat and he was telling me about the things, the thoughts I once shared with him. Now he was leaving me to decided what to choose out of that list, of what I really desired. He was more than real. He smelled nice, he smelled new, the smell I waited so long. The smell which the house smelt. I inhaled, exhaling slowly.


I was home.

Maybe I mouthed those words, maybe I spoke them aloud, maybe I shouted them, maybe I ran out onto the street, took my sweater and my shirt off, threw off the sweater into some unknown direction, not caring and I waved my shirt around like a flag. Who cares that it was white? Yes, I gave up, my dreams won over me and they brought me here. Fate made-out with consciousness. I guess I said that aloud simple, boring four letter word because Kayleen looked at me amazed, dazzled, ok, freaked out. But then it was a weird action, it really was, but then I meant it. I really did. But in the end after a short struggle, and watching me with that ear to ear happy grin, she smiled. Kayleen tilted her head sideways, the smile not coming off any time soon. Ever.

I was home.

Chapter 4

As we know it.

It was the end of the world.

And the sky looked like the awaited staircase, as I'd look above to see the elevators made of stars, thoughts white and innocent as the stairs build up, going forward into the blackness, the light stairs behind, the abyss below and the reminder above.


Monday, 6 September 2010


It finds you.

It befriends you.

It takes you.

It swallows you.

It spits you out.

You find it again.


I Remember Thinking Murder

Saturday, 4 September 2010

Papercut. Chapter 2.

My sightseeing didn’t last long as I soon felt the taxi make a sudden stop. I stared at the silent taxi driver, who ended up smiling at my confused expression. What did he mean by the sudden stop? I couldn’t grasp the meaning behind the face. It felt as if it were a mask, something bursting on the outside, but the inside ready to be filled by all volunteers. I looked at the house which was… my new home? Indeed it was. It had the right and exact numbers carved on the side. I had reached my destination and it was coming to me. I walked outside, feeling a light chill run through my body, but then I felt a wave of excitement hit me afterwards before a final wave of worry took over. This was it. Here I was. I kept looking at the taxi cab driving away, like a reminder that the memories I held back from my home town were now past. I had a new canvas now, a new home for the next several years and hopefully for the rest of my life. So all I had to do now, the hard part was to go on and make a step forward. A step I dreamed about.


It seemed quiet. The thing is it wasn’t my imagination. It really was. I bet if you’d drop a pin you’d hear it echo throughout the street which was now my own. I inhaled and walked on, slowly, imagining me turning the key and opening the door.

It was early morning. Of course it was quiet. My thoughts were all mixed up, as I couldn’t swallow as if I had something stuck in my throat. I looked up and down looking at the house which I would now live in. It was identical to the rest of the houses on the street so there was no need to admire every single one.

I began ruffling my pockets in the search of keys. Where were they?

Only now there was no need.

No, it wasn’t like a horror movie, the door didn’t not creek open in slow motion exposing some blood-thirsty monster about to pounce on me.

“Oh, hey, you must be… Roman.” She said leaning against the door frame, trying to look relaxed and all that jazz. She seemed to talk in pauses, blowing her cover, but then who could blame her? This was our first ever meeting after all, not counting the internet. No, I do not date her. I just needed a room mate and with a little help from friends and family, voilà!

Her dyed scarlet red hair stuck around in different directions. No, it wasn’t her bad hair day. To her a bad hair day would be when it looked all neat and straight from the hair salon. The red was a heavy contrast to her light blue eyes, which I seemed to use really frequently in my paintings.

But the thing which really caught my eye was her height. Yes, me, being short, caused me to look at the height a lot.

Kayleen, the girl’s name was a good several centimetres shorter than me, which seemed to calm down my ego with the fact that I had to tilt my head as I talked to her unlike I usually did, so high up that my neck ached horribly afterwards and sometimes the question of my height was truly traumatic.

What about now?

What do I do now?

Who do I know?

What do I know?

Nobody asides from the red headed girl. Dyed red head girl.

Even her appearance seemed unreal, as if she’d have horns or nineteen fingers. Everything seemed abstract, as if it were a lucid postcard with people smiling; only here there were no people with classic appearance and forks. All was still. For a while.

She waited for an answer, as she kept on biting her fingernail in the process. I walked on, thinking of the crumbled white page, should I start a conversation or rather wave and walk upstairs and unpack? Everything seemed to cloud up my mind, never clearing up for the blue day.

I nod.

Like a doll.

No more a marionette on emotions, glimpses of possibilities.

I grasped them.

Letting them play.

Even I truly believe that my nod looked really unnatural. But then, I was nervous. I was just defending myself, but I just finished school, did I not?

A kid.

“Um…” I paused, sitting down on the floor after dropping my messenger bag on the floor. I felt comfortable now, I don’t know why. Maybe because I liked sitting on the floor, grass, whatever no matter was I sketching or not. Strangely enough, that seemed to give me courage and isn’t that what I was clearly lacking? “I’m Roman. You’re Kayleen, right? Nice to meet you.”

I was talking in pauses as well, a weak parody, which was never enough, not to mention I kept nodding nearly after every single word. I was just as dumb looking as she was now. But I really didn’t accuse her because of being that worried. I admit that wasn’t all that relaxed myself. But then it was clearly seen from both of us.

I kick off my dark blue Converses and she watches me carefully like I was a terrorist. By now I should really be used to it, since I was in the airport today… or was it yesterday? These two past days were a big fat day for me and the second half was just about to begin. And this was the awaited half, it was the second half, the half after the problems. The new start, the new city, the new life. It was the day after the break-up which usually ended up being too damn problematic only today it wouldn’t be, I was sure of it.

Then I looked at her feet. I couldn’t help but feel lighter. Go on, call me a Converse addict. The girl herself was wearing a pair of classical black ones, which in my opinion matched perfectly her attire. Today’s pick was a pair of short denim shorts and a white tank top. I guess I really looked odd compared to her in my, already mentioned, wool sweater, scarf, jeans and well, aside my beloved Converse. She seemed to hesitate, opening her mouth several times and then closing before opening it again. In the end she chewed on her finger a bit more picking up the remaining pieces of courage.

“So…” Then I paused realizing that I had no topic myself. What should I say? Then she let her hand down and waited for a while in case I had something to say. Instead I shook my head indicating that she could speak.

“So we both have locks on our bedrooms. Just in case.” Her last sentence seemed more like a question as if she wasn’t sure, as if I could be offended by that action of hers. But then why should I? I mean, I like privacy myself, surely I’m not that sure that I shall use that lock, but still. Kayleen then put her hands in her pockets, trying to look casual. In reality she looked the opposite, but it was seen that she was trying hard and all. It wasn’t just the fact that she wasn’t sure in the locks were a good idea, but everything in general seemed to make her feel uncomfortable as if all she wanted to was go under her bed, shut her door and relax.

She took a steak of her red hair and began playing with it. I didn’t blame her, I looked as stupid as she did with a desire to pull over another wool shirt and any other way to make me feel warm. She was my age, she just came yesterday and we both were having our first day in University tomorrow, it was banal, it was canon, our parents were frightened as well, everybody was afraid of doing that step to adulthood.

Maybe some were doing it to be polite enough through the pats on the backs, long messages in yearbooks or plain suggestions on wishing.

“Look and try to keep it down after I go to bed and the same will apply for me. Party’s off as soon as one of us goes to bed. Deal?” Maybe she had a rough past with a partying room mate, maybe she was in boarding school? Or simply summer camp? Or school trip? Her look clearly hinted that she wasn’t relaxed when she was telling this, maybe she thought that she looked bossy but she didn’t. Kayleen kept on telling rules which were amazingly useless but the endless popping once in a while ‘ums’ clearly hinted that she was just saying them because well, maybe it would ease her a bit in case I’d really start partying and storm into her room in my boxers while doing some insane dare or something like that.

Could I go around in my boxers? Not that I loved walking around in my boxers or anything, but still the question got stuck in my head, but I didn’t bother to say it out loud. I mean even if I’d feel like it I guess I’d live without walking around in my boxers.

Well, I guess it really helped her ease a bit, by rambling out the rules. I mean I saw her looking up with her light blue eyes into the ceiling but in reality she was off looking into this abyss, ruffling through the speeches she prepared once she’d see me.

She looked cute.

The though hit me like thunder. Did she? I felt myself go embarrassed for a second, the blush getting out, and coloured by a child’s crayon. Thankfully, I could see her saying the rules which now I did not hear. Yes, she is cute, I thought calming myself. Then she looked down, us making eye connection for the first time. Well, not really, I guess, but now I actually was realizing it which was different from before. I was expecting it. I couldn’t help but smile like all those stupid stories, cartoons, movies with the main characters smiling at each other before becoming friends… or lovers. Ok, I’ve officially become insane. But that didn’t me from smiling at her, as I waited for her to return that dumb smile of mine.

But the fact remained as the fact.

She looked really cute.

Chapter 3

Wednesday, 1 September 2010


The garbage can capturing rubbish
So green
Resembling a cage
For the thing inside
Which I see
Which has to be put back
I close my eyes
It can crawl upon my nose
It's legs wobbling
Many eyes looking
Reminding that all has it's end
That the poisoned shall never choke
If only I could choose
The dirt upon my face
I'd let them bury me for no reason
With no spiders nearby
I feel it threading it's legs
It's needle legs
Against my arm
It's blackness upon my neck
Like a rope
I'm waiting to be hung
With all my body aching
My palms upon the wound
It crawls
It plays with my hair
It's mouth against the back of my head
My eyebrow now his pillow
He rests hapilly as
I eat my heart
The sunken legs in my skin
Making a tattoo
Forever to mark my skin
To shoo away the light
To greet more
So that my skin would be covered
As I'd lay,
So messy
So horrible
With nobody to pick me up
It'd laugh
It's eyes would
I glance again
His legs in the air
His teeth in mind
Eyes opened forever
Luring me
To a chamber.