Видать, осень. Пишу слово "который", делая запись в дневнике, а у самой на уме "кот". Уютный такой, осенний. Они очень похожи - осень и кот, повадками: везде залезут, листья через порог набросают... Но нет кота. Зато есть "который" - вечный теперь тот.

20 Марта, 2020

I would collect all the scattered pieces

of my energy, sweep 'em up off the 

ceiling floor, tuck their ends into 

time for myself, into dreams, into 

tea time with creation, into хюгге, away 

from everyone's eyes. I would hand

them over to myself & keep them 

with the Universe, away from fear,

dry, alive & real.

Yet instead I will colour 'em & let 

them be as part of sharing 

space, the result of an 

explosion of my soul.

                                    someone's art, not mine

Will die for a waltz

Your eccentric behavior bizzares me

Dismissive, he described me. I was only respecting his work space. Isn't it odd - now I'm on the other side, thinking to myself: I don't read your inner abstraction; unless you want me to. We have different communication styles - I print, he calligraphies.

 

Double Third

I scarf down caution stickers,

safety off the floor

Yet my heart is still beating with electricity,

excitement, propelling something into my body

I have felt before

Spontaneity left,

survival settled in

I looked the other way when music played

just like I look away from

...