It was the night I thought I had been driving like crazy until morning

And in the morning I drove ’till night. When actually I was only confusing these two: both mornings and nights were driving me crazy. Mornings looked troubled and I assumed it was a matter of divination which would make everything easier. But there were no auguries, no omen.

Not even flowers grew up there, along the side-walks, across oceans and beyond such doubts. Nights, on the other hand, seemed sketched by hands without skills. By hands used to build up great fires, to spread light. But there was no light either, no other but the artificial ones hanging in front of me, on the roads.

The one which discovered the flies in the darkness, exposed them and detached their wings. No divinations and no fire-makings. I wasn’t even driving. Not even day and night. Not even then or them.

It will never turn human.

I wish I could still detach the marrow from the fish bone at the end of the day and let the real creature float aimlessly as if in a Kusturica movie. Let it hit the ground, the sand, the rock, the tail, the foot and the neck. Let it choke in its perceptions.

Distorted, of course, searching in a reluctant place for what the organism cannot hold as proof. Feed it with foolish myths of how it should dream and recall, then of how easy it would be to distinguish between all the people and find the same one. If only I could myself hold ground of my beliefs, the myths I’m telling and the prophecies I launch. The poor fish.

It will get stuck in this tardis the moment it will figure out: it will never be born from the mud of primordial, savage gardens. It will never turn human. And it will never encounter the sole ring that held its pieces together and its chain unbroken – the bone that kept its spine straight, away from circling into a skinless Ouroboros.

There are feelings carving the insight of all the things I see

I make no sense, there is nothing to hold sacred or to let go. And you know it’s funny, since I have been longing for so long for a reason to give everything a soul to pursue and believe in. But it seems that the universe has been waiting for its own reasons to give in. To throw me into this deep void of untitled madness which I will never figure out alone.

Carving deeper to what is left, to songs about cuddling ballerinas fulfilling destinies of those who hate art, I realize that I will never be able to write again. These passages, words, phrases remain floating in vain. Once in a blue moon I will read them again and constantly say to myself don’t look back, don’t look back, no, not now, maybe later…. Ironic enough though, there is always a detail to remind me. And I’m aching, crying for the times when it was perfect and artistic, with cloudy days that seemed warm and cozy, never cool and dreadfully hostile. Now they are the ones pointing fingers.

I scream I surrender but they would never listen. Chairs breathe through the peaches that slipped from the table and remained on the same old chairs. Some peaches are on the ground, intoxicating the floor with redemption and lost gestures. Well they were funny once, tender, withdrawing every drop of skepticism. They are now poison flooded with regret, the type of regret one will never know until helplessly trying to deny it in order to keep sane and lucid.

There’s a blue moon outside and so I read these again and the peaches rot suddenly, turning to ashes of shadows from the early past. I hate you, beauty of form, Art, I hate you forever and you will never foster me again. But I will look for you. And you won’t be there. In the end, it doesn’t even matter, does it?