Wednesday, 6 October 2010


I fell in love in October.


That’s when I was born, when I opened my eyes not seeing anything which I was used to see behind my closed eyelids in the deep slumber, only to receive a faint grasp of that innocence when I’d sleep.

I felt my teeth glued together as I tried not to shake, feeling the icy cold water wrap me up as I’d get towels and voices echo as I’d raise my head seeing the leaves falling and growing in amount of the streets.

I just stood up, feeling the cold spring heavier with the drenched cloth.

I rubbed the water out of my lips, plunging my arms into my pockets feeling the water falling in drops onto my drenched shoulders; I thanked whoever it was at such time in the morning after a sleepless night.

I felt that again, the innocence before air was thrown into my lungs instead of water, icy cold, never resembling the body’s temperature and as it filled my nostrils.

You feel love when you are born, but then does that scream mean of pain as cold is thrown at you after… childhood?

Is that a faint hint of what adolescence with the first sloppy kiss is, when all the energy is given as you try to remember how they kissed onstage at that play I was taken with my class.

All the boys whistled in a whisper nudging each other, saying that it was porn, not even knowing what it even was but using the word thinking that kissing onstage is porn and gross. Well, the gross word never escaped our lips, as we wanted to try it out, feeling some light excitement growing in our minds and not only, the first hints of something physical but still harmless, something resembling that saint of a prince on his white horse. We had a horse, it was a plastic one, but we didn’t dye our heads blonde and we’d never kiss the girl we loved, because we couldn’t kill the dragon.

So I fell in love when I was born, the teenage years springing to be erased by childhood, only when I lost the feeling of thirteen I was stuck in desire as I’d look at my nails in boredom, just for a second before I’d find the white keys.

I played since I was five.

I started in June.

My gran asked me to play, her white hair resembling the keys with the earrings as black as the keys, as I’d be afraid to press hard. I’d play softly, pressing them chaotically, she said I played too quiet, I told her I played loud, my fingers shaking, she complained.

I asked her to be quiet and I played two or three keys without an order, the notes mixing in front of my eyes until they blurred as tears would fall and I’d stop.

I played nothing.

They understood nothing as the water dripped as I pushed the door open to my apartment. I never kept it locked, afraid of the keys of losing it and get lost outside, as I’d wait the door dividing me from my own personal space and then you feel a strange feeling of loneliness, a growing passion to the walls the scratched places which the nails found to dig in, lovers’ lipstick smeared, notes glued, dust under the television as I’d move it around the room and into the kitchen, the always opened microwave luring food in as I’d stuff it on, shoving and staring up into the ceiling, as if water shall drip from it onto my face and immerse the whole room in its grief.

I got robbed several times to see nails spread around but the black piano never lifted which stood in the middle of the living room sometimes covered in left over pizzas, coke dripping and patches of it glowing with the remains of yesterday’s cleaning resembling spring, which never ceased to come, gripping onto summer which never showed its nose. They both made out, summer, the lover boy grasping spring’s hand, as the green would flow between them.

I despised their love and their hatred towards winter, which remained as spring was abducted forever to remain in love’s arms which was only given to gods and never to mortals whose existence meant to spread more life onto the soil.

We’d grow, biting the sand, destroying the earth, as oil would spill and Yorke would rant. I’d do nothing, I’ll just watch bbc before going to sleep, turning off the light with gas pollutioning and taking the remain of electricity, because I didn’t care from what shall our children feed on.

Our parents polluted, laughing, not thinking about who shall stumble in their greasy footsteps, laughing as they’d die, grasping our hands for us to fall into the hole and get dirt in our mouth that the gagging reflex could never work and we’d choke, our bones upon our parents, with a shaky finger luring the children as they’d grab their beloved by the glued braids, the ribbons once tied as the eyes opened with the first gasp.

We were choking from birth.

We die once the pink ribbon around our neck unties and the dreams collapse, because we can’t take reality, the beauty of torture, as we dream of dying in satisfaction, on a bed, chair, table, on the ground but with a pleased grimace of peace printed as we’d rot, the organs pouring, the keys flicking until the fag is lit.
And the world collapses in burnt feathers of the crows falling around the trees. The –

The TV is on, teletubbies jumping as I fall in front of it, chewing my nail, not hearing them speak as the keys spring to my mind and silence hisses at me, begging to be written and shared, poured and exposed to die in the blackness of the insides of people’s opened mouths, open to earn pleasure from the sharp silence rubbing off the teeth and falling off as we smile.

“Do you want to dance?” I grin at the nearest girl as she stares at the water dripping into the insides of my mouth, the rest falling off the chin, not shielded by my wide grin. The cloth of my coat drenched that I feel ice building here and there.

I had a swim fully clothed at the beginning of October, feeling the sad waves of the seventh coming to wash over once more year after year, reminding that everything ends.

Like the dance I never got.

The hope which runs through my veins, grabbing my chin, holding my tongue, splitting my soul as the words would form and my eyes would fall upon the dark haired girl, her dark eyes reflecting my own.

Then she agrees.

I see my reflection in hers,

because she has nothing to show, nothing to share,

so neither do I.

I walk away in silence, she walks away with laughter.

I feel cold, but not for long as I go into the crowd wondering wherether in that thousand there shall be a smile, a dance and a wiped out reflection ready to vomit out in the streets, holding the arms like a cross, as the eighth shall roll.

It’s the fifth.