Doctor, I’ve got Spring. Is it curable?

Everything is wrong. Everything is so wrong that all that’s right seems to smell like something rotten and doesn’t want to ascend the throne in my head, breaking the last hopes of reinstitution of monarchy there. Just like the Soviet Union, for Christ’s sake!

Already as in the spring, already woken up from sleep and shyness, the sun jokingly turns hair into copper, words into silver and crystal, feet into lead and thoughts into well sharpened steel. Someone’s bitter lips with someone’s insults with someone’s retellings of their “last nights” with someone’s hysterics with someone’s fingers striking my hand with someone’s touching words. A whole whirlpool of what I was looking for. A whirlpool that washes away everything but the tears in the morning – tears are stronger.

When I break out from this all-absorbing whirlwind, I get into another tempest that, strangely, becomes a shelter. That’s how I live these days: hiding from one hell in another, by turns calling one of them a heaven.

“Spring” is not a state of nature. “Spring” is the name of the chaos inside my head that’s impossible to take away as a bag of rubbish after cleaning the house. This year for me the spring has begun on the 1st of January, when I confused it with symptoms of a hangover that came too soon. But it wasn’t over the next morning. Nor the following day.


~ by Anna on April 4, 2010.

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