Starting my days in the morning.

When I turned right, my eyes were hit by the morning bloody sky. Riding on two wheels I was caching with my human camera the light and the color of the moment. My thoughts were waving in the blow of the wicked wind. I was also feeling very wicked, man…

And suddenly I got lost in the music coming from the headphones and all the green hills around me. Mesmerized I cycled, for a little bit, thorough the recent past.  A lot of faces then rolled on the front wheel, many memories compressed in archive files. Stored somewhere in a closet, someday they will be rediscovered. All will be funny like hell then. With this in my mind I cycled further.

Until I reached the top of the hill and factories were spreading smoke in the morning sky. It was beautiful like that time when girls were running barefoot in the winter morning.  Drunk that is. People were wondering why and they also judged using decadent phrases at their address. Nice girls with bad habits. Who am I to judge when I drink my morning coffee with beer.

It is a perfect illusion created by the sunrise. The sun man, the sun is to blame. The morning sun acts like a catalyst for all the actions that could happen in the day. Ja man! This is the sun that some love and some hate. It is the bringer of destruction and construction.

When I turned left, my eyes were hit by the morning clouds. They slowly sat down by the river and washed my mind with pouring rain.

But who’s to blame?

morning transgressions

And he watched the bird fly two times over his head before leaving the lake. The wind was blowing leafs in his burning cigarette. He watched as his brain was trying to light up some memories. Once the fire started he could see all those lakes from the past where he used to swim and dream under willow trees. And birds were flying high and low. And they had this specific chant that he never heard before. Those days were covered in gravy and colored in pale gold as the grapes that were standing proud over the hills.

He left the lake without looking back and in ashes he kept his past, in labeled jars. The days were his acceptance of this world. Of the present he lived. The hours were the minutes of the past. Yes, time was moving in a fast pace but he, as an individual, as flesh and bones and all other related human components, he had a slow timing. He was happy in the future for the good things in the past. Thus he couldn’t clear his head of the mist that conquered his sense of present.

Before bed he stares at the dark lip of the night with red eyes and sour mouth with no one around. But there are another approximately 7 billion people in this world. So solitude is only a desire, a choice that some go for.  Sleeping alone with the human race can be quite demanding.

The mornings are excuses to overdose on coffees and cigarettes. He lights up 5-7 in a row and pours the black liquid into the mug he got as a gift from the bank. It’s said that some people out there are equipped with this super power of guessing in the coffee grounds. He stares at the dirty mug. There’s no more coffee left and the pack of Pall Mall is almost empty. He thinks about faces, gestures, people, a black cat, sores, infidelity and hard to get drugs. About doughnuts and other delights. He stares at the mug and tries to see the future.

Poor, poor boy he doesn’t know that future is already created by his present actions. The rain drops on his shoulders are not to blame for his misfortune. He’s the one that acted without a plan/waited in vain/ for all that remains are unfinished journeys and drained lakes.

Tired eyes seek a body that departed; slow hands couldn’t grab in time a soul that dissolved into a memory. He grabs the beer with both hands and away the liquid flows throughout the system. And then the brain stops for some time in a numb state. In this time of thoughtless atmosphere the heart appears and jumps and kicks the brain. With pain the next day he wakes up to find himself alone with 7 billion people.

Poor, poor boy he loses people through the night in vast and empty spaces after his brain created crooked mazes. The problem stands in too much thinking. He strives for simple love igniting nights with smokes and drinks. This theme is suitable for the trembling hands and crippled heart. He is a burning match that fades in the dark.  On fjord seagulls pair in the rising sun and he’s satisfied with the image. Sunbeams embrace him warmly in the cool air of a 6 A.M. This keeps him awake, accepting another day.  

blabbering around

When you feel the soft embrace of tolerance, dance around the opportunities. Take them by the hand and push things forward. Accelerate the process if it’s necessary to get it faster. Images tend to take form when you truly desire something. And when something fails to happen you blame it on others. Everything collapses at the point when you realize the illusion of the walls that separate your worlds. Your confusion born from shattered words and images. Mystifying your space blinds your eyes and you can’t see the naked truth that lies on the brass bed.

                Turn the tap on and let the stream amaze you. Put your hands in the stream. Watch the process. Call it off. Bang your head against the tap until blood gushes and fills your sink. Do you feel it now?

                On the way to the hospital, yell at the nurse, call her a whore… Reality is dressed in white. Reality saves you from the evil you’ve created. Bloody paintings hang on the corridors walls. Jump from the medical stretcher and dance with yourself. Check the wall if it’s there. Or maybe the door through which you exit on the porch. It’s late and you play the harmonica like Sonny Boy Williamson. The Sun says goodbye and calls it a day. You sit in the rocking chair with your whiskey on white dust and the feeling of being another one among the others.