From the inside of the dark

There are good days and there are bad days. Good or bad, they’re mostly grey.

Life has become a cycle of endless grey days during which your serotonin-drained brain somehow still manages to function. There are good days and there are bad days. Seems like this one is doomed.

You desperately want to be hugged and comforted but also left alone at once.

And as these grey days pass, it’s all numb. Whatever’s still alive, you’d numb it out with wine, pills, meds – anything goes. Anything’s great just as long as it lifts you up just an inch from reality.

And yes, there are some very happy days – when you’ve been good and determined and terrifyingly in control, and during those moments the colours would return – the whole brilliant spectrum, filling the frame until there is almost no grey…

But those days are tricky because you are at your most reckless when you’re happy, when there are no shadows looming over your conscience and your brain is wired with ideas and plans. And so it goes: the night, the fun, the party, the fireworks exploding in the brain as strangers around you build their masterful plans for conquering the Universe.

And it’s so funny and sad how those beautiful plans all crumble in the morning. Now it’s just you in this dusty apartment, floor littered with empty bottles and dirty clothes. All the magic and confidence from the night before are gone, and there’s nothing within these walls but their own empty and hollow presence. All your heroes from last night have slipped and slid away, and it’s like the fairytales you talked and dreamed about had never happened.

There is warm, blindingly-bright sun shining outside, people dressed in t-shirts and dresses, kids laughing, dogs sprinting towards the park, smells of food and fresh flowers seeping into the blue of the skies… But you’re stranded here, in this man-made black hole, with no way out. Like a poor little caged bird, you cast a longing gaze outside – and the window is open but your wings are sprained and soiled with oil. And in this simple metaphor is everything you are and everything you’re not.

Once upon a time, you were talented and strong. Once upon a time, there were worlds at your feet. Once upon a time, nothing was impossible and your dreams were spelled out with the stars in the sky…

Once upon a time.

Late at night, you see the ghosts of the people you never became, shadows of the women you could have been, wandering along the hallways. Haunting, taunting, torturing. And during those restless, stormy nights the spirits of all the ‘if’s and ‘maybe’s and ‘could-and-may-have-been’s are more alive than ever. Those dreams are dead, strangled and buried by you without getting a chance to grow and blossom. And every single one of them is here, at your doorstep, forever vengeful for its death. They are so evil, those failed possibilities.

And by some higher plan – designed by the Devil or maybe by God himself – you crumble to the ground, succumbed to your urges, dehumanised. And you whisper the prayer to God – the one you suddenly remember to believe in, the one you recall only in your darkest hours, hoping he would save you, take you out of here and forgive your sins. And maybe this time he will.

For you truly are sorry, you mean it as you pray to your forgotten God. You promise you’d be good, if only he would ease your pain and make you really, truly happy, once again. But not all wishes can be granted, and God has his hands full with other things.

So you remain in the dark. Waiting for the dawn that will bring a new day.

There are good days and there are bad days. Anything can happen and everything can change. You ought to stay positive – that’s a what they all say.

There are g o o d days

and there are b a d days.

As the clock strikes six in the morning, it’s up to you to make that day right. Split second is often enough.

I still believe that you can make it and, on the good days, you believe it too. And I still wish that you can be happy, once upon a time.






I’m sorry, everyone.

Yes, this blog is a work of fiction but it’s me who has screwed up.


Mum, here’s something important I want to tell you…

I wish you could read this, Mum. Wish you could read it all, every word. And yet, this is something I’d never share with you. You’d never read this anonymous blog, you’d never recognize me here.

I am so sorry, Mum. For being what I am and doing stupid things, for never managing to change or be stronger.

I won’t ever be able to tell you what’s happening to me – no way in Hell!

You still believe that I’m good and innocent but I’ve fucked up so many things, so many times… I’ve wasted so much time – both yours and my own – so many possibilities and wonders snipped at the bud. So many beautiful things could have grown and blossomed, but now they’re rotten and trampled over by the brainless idiot I am.

You’ve been telling me so much, guiding, teaching, blowing wind into my sails… And all I wanted was to break free from your arms and plunge into the dark ocean that is the world – only to helplessly sink to the bottom. The world was stronger than me and it has swallowed me whole. Somehow, I managed to get back ashore, albeit shattered into many splinters that I managed to fit back together as a child would fit a puzzle.

And God I wish I listened to you more, taken every advice as an order instead of waving it off like some annoying fly circling around my head. I wish I stayed home with you every single one of those nights that ended up a disaster in some other part of town.

I’m so lonely here, sitting in this room submerged in cigarette smoke and booming noises of the traffic outside. I miss you so-so much, and any minute now I’ll burst into tears. And you could save me, take me away from all the bad people in my life, warm me up, protect me, and maybe even make sure horrible things won’t happen to me, ever again…

… if I could tell you. If I could only tell you.

Which I won’t, not in this life, not in the next one, not ever. I’d rather die and rot alone and single-handedly tackle all circles of Hell than tell you that I am a fuck-up and a miserable failure. Mum, I would never do that to you. Mummy, you do not deserve to have an addict for a daughter; even though she’s seemingly successful, even though she’s beautiful and bright, she’s not the child you raised. It’s all a mask and deep inside she’s damaged and infected. There are only a handful of years separating the present from the golden days of my youth, how did it suddenly go so wrong?

All my life, from those very first memories of your face, you were my God, my world, my compass and my lifeboat. My eyes trace your proud stride as you cross the bridge over the river while the golden evening sun wraps your ghostly silhouette in its arms, until all I see is stardust hovering above the water. You are the greatest human to have ever walked the earth.

And I am ashamed to be your daughter.


I hurt, therefore I am.

I hurt everyone I love. They, in turn, hurt me ten times more. Sometimes, it’s the other way around. Other times, it is everything combined, at times when we try to be evil and spiteful or, rather, fail at being kind enough to stop, think and forgive a little. Again and again, I spin in a cycle of hurt. I sink and drown but resurface, again and again. I am a natural swimmer – in real life too – blending in and taking the shape of water. I sense that there may be a connection there: as my graduate instructor says, always keep an eye out for those metaphors.

And the hurting never ends, ever-present and real. Just like the oceans of the world – powerful, dangerous and continuously rising, year after year. Just like wild rivers that annihilate the stone and metal and wood, slowly grinding away at their matter. Just like blood in a human body – an electric life force pumping through arteries and veins.

To live, to simply be, to exist – is to destroy. Whenever one life blooms, another withers. That is the design, the great plan in which we’ve all been placed, positioned unbeknownst our will; by mistake or with a life-changing mission or, maybe, simply because – only time will tell.  We are here because someone else is not, treading the earth in someone else’s place, dreaming someone else’s dreams, wasting someone else’s time, trying to make someone else’s difference…

The world might remember you: maybe you’ll write something, prove something, fight – or die – for something. Maybe you’ll be great and bask in glory, fame and grace. Maybe you’ll get shunned, tortured, or executed – dying as a martyr to be venerated generations later as a hero or a saint or a genius (cheers to being born ahead of your time). Or maybe you’ll be an ordinary man with an ordinary job and ordinary family and ordinary house with an ordinary kitchen watching an ordinary TV show after a long ordinary day. The world might remember you, though, most likely, it won’t. Either way, everything and anything is history as soon as the clock strikes midnight marking the start of a new calendar day. History is all boredom, cobwebs and dust; random names that ring the bell but mean nothing. But wait – there’s no pressure, no blame or guilt placed. Humans cannot possibly be expected to fully embrace and, let alone, accept the fragility, the perseverance, the ambiguity, the complexity, the fleetingness, the gentleness and, ultimately, the tragedy of life. Joys and sorrows bound together in a cycle of hurt.

It hurts, the great unknown: what lies beyond, the afterlife, the end, the ever after. It hurts to know there is something there despite the scepticism and pragmatism of science. It hurts to face your God, the judgment, the moment when you face your rights and wrongs and fateful ‘if’s’. It hurts to think that punishment awaits.

But, even worse, it hurts to think that after this there may be nothing. It hurts to imagine that you’re alone, both in this life and in the one you’ve been promised.

What hurts the most though is that once you’re gone, you’re gone. Once more, the sun will rise, the spring will come, the kids will start the school year, the party leaders will make promises about better tomorrows. And then, once more, and more, and more, and more.

While we cling to our precious achievements, aspirations and dreams, the cycle of hurt stretches far beyond our Solar system into the darkness of space where planets get swallowed by black holes, galaxies collide, stars explode, and lonely telescopes discover worlds which we’ll never inhabit. And it hurts, even though most of us will never feel the impact.

But, such is life of beings made of flesh and bone and blood with finite lifespans and invisible clocks tickin away on their shoulders: ‘Tick-tock, another day wasted…. Tick-tock, another year gone…’ And it hurts. When you notice those clocks and hear their evil chimes, it really hurts. Being truly, completely alive… hurts.

In this world, what do you miss the most?

There are days when I miss my former self: fresh-faced, beautiful, fearless, and naïve enough to take on any challenge thrown at her by the world and anyone who dwells in it. She stares back at me from photographs stored in family albums and Facebook uploads which are now hidden from public eyes in an attempt to appear more professional and convincing while playing a part of an accomplished, successful adult. Today, you’re not expected – forbidden even –  to share what really is on your mind and in your heart. The world likes happy and healthy people, and all their problems must be safely locked away in the darkest corners of their houses, wardrobes, brains and souls.

Now, as I’m storing away my grief, trying to stuff it into a little shoebox (whoever thinks that a box – no matter which size –  can contain human  grief must be  fucking joking), the fabric of time unfolds, layer by layer, as the past and the present converge in one delirious dream. There’s something irreplaceable in the eyes of the girl I see: an endless sea of possibilities, thousands of untraveled roads and paths not yet taken, mistakes not yet made, and a lifetime of wonder waiting ahead, stretching far beyond the horizon. Stretching far and wide as if life itself has no end.

Feeling immortal, invincible, timeless – these are the vibes I miss the most. The time when all the problems could be solved tomorrow – a magical tomorrow that would freeze the sand in an hourglass and stop the hands of all clocks. The time when a new dawn guaranteed to bring nothing but apricot-coloured sunlight and icy dew on the grass. Then, one day – either sunny or overcast, or, perhaps, one when it really did rain at 2p.m. as predicted by the forecast – your unbreakable, untouchable shield dissolves into thin air. And, as the years tick away, the weight of the world shifts further down to your shoulders, until it’s almost too much and too heavy to bear.  And time catches up as you slow down your pace; and dreams, one by one, fall into oblivion: some – brought to life, some (most of them, really) – neglected or shattered to specks.

So many chances of happiness are offered to each and every one of us in equal measure: waiting around the corners of the streets, hidden inside the fog of the moors, lost within the crowds at railway stations, or snuggled up in living rooms as windows shudder from winter gales. Happiness is itching to be found but the roads that lead to it are winding paths which almost always disappear into a dark, beast-infested forest. Only the bravest dare to wander there.

The mirror, the photographs on the wall, the old dresses in the closet – testaments of bygone times and ruthless imprints of days which rushed by in a carefree, colourful buzz. The ghosts of the past retreat back into the objects that still bind them to this world, while the shoebox grief seeps through the cracks in the walls. Out of everything that lives and breathes around us, human feelings may indeed be timeless.

One look in the eyes that screams anticipation and courage and wonder. This one, you’ll never get back.

Dark Fairy-tales

Once upon a time, I wanted to fall in love. When my wide eyes looked at the city lights, they reflected stars. It is practically impossible to see stars in a big city, but I could, once upon a time.

I got caught in a halo effect of a boy who showed me magic and wonder (if only they were the good kind). And so my spirits soared higher than the tallest buildings, up to where the aeroplanes rise as they gain their height. They soared, only to plummet back down to the gutter as next mornings shone their pale light in my dirty windows. Tangled in the web of fun and games you would prefer your darling kids to avoid, I was lost, scared, damaged.

These enigmatic tales are nothing but an illusion. As I recall them now, they are an illusion still. For there is nothing poetic about losing your mind and your voice and all that you were meant to be (once upon a time). You’re nothing but a silly kid being wild and careless with a bunch of toxic friends and destructive habits. Wasting away the beauty, damaging the youth and scarring the heart for years and years to come. There will be nothing waiting beyond that door, only dishwater-grey water beneath your feet and the suffocating city skyline, polluted and plastic. And that is so damn tragic.

Then, on a clear winter night, I looked up at the sky and remembered how bright the stars used to shine back in my small seaside town, and how so much real love is still running through my veins, pumped in there tirelessly by all of those who loved me. And how so much of still unwasted life was out there, waiting. Realisations hit you hard and sudden like that sometimes, though I’m certain that, deep down, regrets are building up for quite a while, albeit on a subconscious level.

Rose-coloured glasses shatter inwards making your eyes bleed bitter tears as reality sinks in and fills you up with guilt and pity and hatred for yourself. It fills you to the brim and gurgles in your throat, stopping only to let you catch a breath (for you must not die, you’ve got to live and painfully struggle through this).

Dark fairy-tales don’t usually end with a ‘happily ever after’. Mine did, and I guess I was lucky. But, even after all these years, I’m still ashamed. But hell if I will ever let anyone or anything take that happy ending away from me.

We are the Winners

Waves of sadness come crashing in moments before the great victory. The world is yours but something is holding you back. Deep within that brave, fearless soul, maybe you’re also human, and maybe being starved of love is not all that foreign to you.

It’s the culmination of many things. You feel it as fireworks explode in the sky. The road will be different from now on, and as always, there are sacrifices to be made, again and again as you climb your golden stairway. Slowly but steadily you ascend to heavens, and to all the onlookers down here it appears to be nothing but luck and easy win, but we both know that it is untrue, and how many times you had to fall and break and die a little just to make one step. As ever, so much remains unseen when shadows of fear and doubt are shattered by your luminous glow.

We are all disillusioned, confused and lost (?)

The winds of change are about to sweep me away. There’s a moment in time when, right before the plunge, you take a look back and your heart swells. Things will never be the same again once you’ve taken that step. Not because you’re burning bridges or forgetting to call, but because when a new door opens, the old one absolutely must be forced shut. Just like there can only be one dominant species on the planet or only one heavenly body which pulls smaller ones into its gravity. Naively still, I refuse to give up the idea that nothing ever fades in a world that never reverts to silence.

We are the winners, battered and bruised and strong and glorious. Stepping into the brilliant light, grazing the surface of the earth with the tips of our toes. With a hissing sound, the tears dissipate.


The beginning.

There isn’t a season when we don’t feel sad

I’ve been registered here for over two years now, so it seems. Too many times I’ve mentioned the inescapable, unscrupulous flight of time so I will abstain from these thoughts today.

With one important dissertation done and dusted, more academic plans are ploughing their way into my restless mind, bringing with them the perfectly normal mix of excitement, fear, curiosity and ambition. I’m feeling truly alive when my mind is busy.

And yet, every now and then, I have these moments of loneliness, of longing for something which I lack in my life. They usually catch up with me in the early hours of the morning when, having drunk more liquor than I normally allow myself, these horrible thoughts come to silently haunt me. They perch themselves on my bedpost, sitting perfectly still – so still that their presence is barely distinguishable and yet, so unmistakably loud. In the shadows of the bygone day, as the world sleeps peacefully, my tired heart bleeds and bleeds and bleeds, its crimson tears rolling off my sleeve and onto the floor. But that’s okay because we ought to bleed in order to feel better. This is so strange but that’s just how it works.

Things always get better in the morning. As you open your eyes feeling the sunlight on your face; as the birds sing their songs in the trees outside your windows; as the remnants of dreams evaporate from your eyelids, lingering just a moment more on the tips of your eyelashes. As you wake up and open all the windows, everything begins again.


Hadn’t posted anything here in a very long time, and it feels like the last post was written just yesterday. Oh well, here I am, getting older and (hopefully) wiser. Always moving forward, even if at times it’s a little hard.