Starting Fires

Creaky floor, bitter tea, and old furniture that you know so well, fall asleep, wake up, and dream in reality, few minutes broke free from a dream, and few hours when you are not asleep, looking away from the bright sun. In your head, and before closed eyes, you see long lost puzzle pieces, BLIK!!!! Small room, and the material isn't always tight enough, jumping, and rip into wrinkled snippets of white sheets, you see white instead of remembered-forgotten paintings, where are the faces from the past, once upon a time, in the past, you can close the gate?? So, listen, how is it, something has changed inside or outside of you, in something, or quite possibly in someone else, or maybe the bar stool has bent legs, or bartender's tits were too small??? Where are the fragments of the "old" you, fading and color-less, where is the aroma of the old magic, odorless passion, dry roses, and after all you hate roses. And so what?

Listen, cellophane swishes, from a destabilized vase water overflows, and all of a sudden you remember what shoes the priest wore at the funeral of a long forgotten aunt, but so painfully you try to remember what color were the eyes of that blond guy, who once was your whole world, and now- he only became a piece of it. How is that possible, that in us, stick around, those little fragments of daily life, and melted Sunday ice cream, and I don't exactly remember when the sense ended, when so many people disappeared, and so many came in from shivering darkness, when you were looking in a totally different direction.

And them, you lean over old, ripped notebook from those dreams, where you were drunk off words, where "forever" existed, and where "never" didn't, and only harder and harder your heart was beating, and how you are afraid, so bloody afraid, that your today wont only be a yesterday tomorrow, so it wont become a ripped stocking, or empty, plastic bottle- you know, you know oh so well – cant drink your beer from yesterday, and yesterday's hour wont get you drunk.. Where is it in You? Where is room for chocking unease of present happiness? It's silly to be afraid because of fear, but if You are afraid of fear itself, is it really wiser?

It's in you everyday, and with each- new one comes back, with each echoed-word, and executed gesture, you wake up again, what, what if, maybe, and maybe sooooo- long ago exchanged for confidence in possibility and rebellion, but why haven't you exchanged the stupid hope, stupid feelings, and funny night-mare-pillow-mentality???? See, you see only unhappiness, and because of that you become unhappy, and if the bells are silent, and steps are too quite, you will miss them, you will not notice them.

Echoes of yesterday wont pass me by, and I will catch the sweet tones of today in the butterfly net, if so, if not…but even then, it's all mine, like in the instant when it happened, and what is coming up- still has radiant cloud, and taste like chocolate liqueur, and like nothing else, nor anything or anyone else.

Good night to all, eyes will rest and head will stop the fire, because with the hay lining I am just asking for fires of future days, which, trust me when I say, are not hard to start.