Just Let Go. @ 11:19
Death Cab For Cutie - I Will Possess Your Heart.
Now move on to the story itself.
You may keep listening to the song over and over again, if you wish to.
Or be in silence.
Second night with no sleep. The deadly fatigue has translated itself into my bones, now keeping a track of the steady tick-tocking of the clock. The black straws of the time move slowly towards 9am, and I am being embraced by the warmth of the cafeteria, while outside wails the snowy wind.
Station welcomes all the arriving buses with opening doors, and it is from there a red carpet with masses of
colorless souls rolls out.
No face is familiar, no face is real; all friends are in their own homes, at work, between the arms of grace.
There is no one for me anymore. I don't know anyone anymore, no one who would come and offer some sparkling amusement.
Still chewing through M. Unt's book, sucking through the heart of the bone. Through the drunk excuses and apologies, bad mistakes from the past rise up. The electrical fields of the cellphone arise through messages, which are lead into the black hole of a metaphysical eraser.
Regret or no regret though, just leave this breather alone.
Mistakes became a dream; and now I say 'Sayonara' - for how many times, I do not have the answer – but don't worry.
Don't worry, our potential was long gone into the sculpture of the big cities.
"In the dark, human being is vigorous, unwanted senses are switched off. The richness of the details interfere during the day."
~ M. Unt 'Autumnball'
If you let yourself go into this maze - those colored commercial nightmares on screens, which sell just the
solid emptiness; these demonstrative window-shoppers, all of whom can only see the daily life of
dominating mannequins.
Headless.
Whose home has a secret chamber for all these chopped off heads? Non-rouged, living their own natural rhythm, day after day.
It has gone over into a soft-snowstorm outside. The movement keeps thickening.
Light is snow-bright and painful.
This Man Has Beautiful Eyes And I Am A Woman With Small Hands.
There is so little color on the streets. Each and every person is wearing their grey mask upon their faces, they have covered themselves with a dark rug. Depressive masses of Estonian cities. Eye-lenses are tired, twisting and turning inside this heavy skull, though it comes out from its secretive cave, as soon as some color is noticed.
The shade is so lucid that it shines back from your own core with such passion, so much so that the elegant spirit gets lost into it.
Drinking cold Latte - just to fill the passing time. I am aware that I will fall asleep on my way towards that small town, during the 45 minutes of my bus ride. Into that blue room of horrors, where it is never warm enough; where dreams have become eternally weaving insomnia.
Because everything is better during the nights.
Because there are no people around.
Because only a few random automobiles are sliding over that chosen illogical trajectory.
Nothing is never complicated, it is all actually really easy.
Have you ever noticed that if you haven't gotten any sleep at all, it tastes, smells and feels like a hangover? This is what I am sensing now, and it is pulling and pulling me back into that void of memories.
'Evil' just like that blue-eyed hotbody kept saying. Though the truly interest discovery is when you comprehend the main reason why you can't sleep. These thoughts keep running inside the back of your pulsing neck, surging in an entire system of miles inside your head.
One man, with the sense of being a drunkard, with a red face like Santa Claus, with a grey mustache that all grandfathers usually have,
he promises one crimson wine for himself – for the start of the day.
Inside a crystal goblet.
Another man with glasses, he took a seat in this small table with three four-legged chairs. I had taken one place away into the endless circle of waking up.
A beer named 'Rock' in its black shiny skin.
Clean glass.
The other one disappeared before my eyes could even take a second glance. There is no way you can drink wine quickly, as you are to enjoy it.
Let the taste itself play chess on the fields of your tongue, in your delicate throat.
Savour it.
Escape with it.
Become free on these crimson wings of sour, sweet or bittersweet.
Old Gentleman ::
"Am I disturbing You?."
Miyakui ::
"No."
Old Gentleman ::
[noticing my maniacally moving pen]
"Are you studying for tests?"
Miyakui ::
"No. Writing. Because I can."
Tear of fear, that I would be spoken more to, I grabbed the Unt's pages and started to swallow the world of that book. Soon after that, he left.
Walking on his own hollow travels, in his own hollow world...
o o o
I have always wondered, how precious each life is, and yet, if people themselves treat others like trash, why are they even wanting for something different in return?
Money. Fame. Popularity. Vanity. The more they have, the more secure they feel.
The better the quality of their mask is upon their lives, the most fake they are. Life teaches us through mistakes, through pain and through experience.
Life teaches us to become free, but only, when people let themselves go.
So.
Just.
Let.
Go.
Miyakui - the story
[also known as mari.]
&&
Sheri - the design / edit
