You don’t recognize poetry unless it has been broken in lines. But we are the very essence of Poetry, its words, rhythm and rhymes. We are the High Art, thus we need no God other than the one who created us.

I write on the blank side of an Indian travel guidebook, because Chaos is beautiful. And non-existent.

If referring to my country’s past makes me politically incorrect… Well, then, I am. But when you accused me and said you were not afraid, I saw fear behind your eyes. How can you face the world if you can’t face your thoughts?

And when the Azerbaijani kisses your hand bending so low you can see his balding head and gives you a bottle of whine with a label only he knows how to pronounce, you know Christmas is really near.

The time I like best is 6am,

When the snow is 6 inches deep,

Which I’m yet to discover

’cause I’m under my covers fast,

Fast asleep.

- Tanka Guragain -

Men have been telling tales to each other since the dawn of time; Mark Currie has even described human race as “homo fabulans – the tellers and interpreters of narrative”[1]. Narrative is seen as “a universal form of human expression”[2], it opens up a view of lived and imagined lives, as well as human nature.

But the fashion of the narrative depends on, well, current events.

Last few years have been nothing but hard and I don’t speak only about economic situation. The majority have started to turn over their minds on various subjects. I even found a study [3], where it is claimed that women, in general, consider themselves to be more depressed than they have been in decades. Some have even stated that emancipation was a mistake.

What I am interested in are the books people read.

Grownups turn to religious matters, young adults lately tend to read everything with happy ending. And when I say happy ending, I really mean happily ever after. Ever. Like in the sense of immortality.

And who could blame them, er, us?

Well, there is a part of society with more sense, if I may say so. And that little part is literally little (in the sense of age, that is). Elizabeth Bullen wrote a fantastic paper [4] on the subject of the power of darkness and why kids nowadays throw away books with queasy-sweet plots. I admit that I wouldn’t have read it if not for my term paper on “A Series of Unfortunate Events” by Lemony Snicket. To sum it all up, kids growing up in the “risk society” (parents having no job or on the verge of losing it, lack of money and depression) refuse to believe in fairy tales. One may say that they grow up faster, lose their childhood and what not. Well, it is not for me to judge is it good or bad. Sometimes things just happen, and it is not like we didn’t see that coming.

Time is running faster and faster, and it is not just me noticing it. My mother always said that there is very little time left, I only really understand it now.

I remember how my mother bought us head bands and we were jumping for joy not because we liked them so much, but because we knew it would make her happy. I remember how she bought herself a wooden comb, but her boss told her that they were not good. She was dissapointed; I was standing right next to her in an old lift, which always made noise. I dreamt that dad was standing in the middle of the road, and all the other other drivers where laughing at his old car. I remember how my dad’s face lit up when he bought a new one, how proud he was to take us for a ride. I remember how my sister went with me to my first cello exam, and how she lent me her skirt because I wasn’t dressed up for the occasion. I remember how she cried when she was little, I remember holding her in my hands.

And I am afraid of all the things I don’t remember, because I might forget the memories I cherish. I am afraid I don’t say „I love you” enough, I am afraid I forget to say „I am sorry” time after time. But most of all, I am afraid of what the future holds; I know not how I will go on without them.

your fears climb up 

your spine like spiders

how can i show you

you have nothing to fear

„ (..) So I met my old friend and instantly regretted not putting on something more chic and beautiful,” daughter nibbled a cookie, while her mum was baking apple pie.

„How so?”

„You wouldn’t believe how beautiful she was, like she had just stepped out of glamour magazine or something.”

„Who are we talking about?” sister descended from stairs and tried the pie. It was not ready yet. „Not the girl you were meeting today?”

„Actually, yes. Why?”

She looked at them with that how-can-you-even-think-about-that expression she had mastered so well. „Because she is not beautiful.”

„Wha-”

„Remember you told me to check the pictures of your previous meeting, and I did. I thought her to be pretty plain.”

„Friends see each other a bit differently,” mother switched off the oven.

„Meaning?”

„Well,” she poured milk in four glasses. „I personally think that the most beautiful woman is my best friend.”

„How can you think so?” daughter almost choked over her milk. „She has double chin and small eyes.”

„See? It depends on how you much you love the person.”

“My 5 years old nephew often takes the animation movie “Cars” with him when staying at our place. Either that, or he wants to see the “Pirates of the Caribbean Sea”, there are no other options. It is like some kind of security blanket, a piece of home he can carry with him,” the girl with the pony gazed at the white wall behind the others. She never looked people in the eye, when introducing new idea, only when she was sure they accepted it.

Krishna girl smiled: “Children are like that, all of them.”  She draw a circle in the air. “They grow used to one thing and can’t part from it. My little cousin always takes her napkin wherever she goes. This napkin is so old that its one corner is slightly darker than the rest and whenever she is sad, she caress her forehead with it. If she likes someone really, really much, she fondles them with the napkin.” Her hand moved absentmindedly to stroke the short bob.

“But grown ups are also like that, even if they wont admit it,” Pony girl crossed her legs. ”There are some movies or songs, or books that make us feel calm and as if the world was back in the right order. People are insecure even though we claim to be above all living creatures, we can’t stand alone without some reassuring piece of security.”

Standing above everything, they are dressed in reflections, but reflections are only that – copies of the real things. They are never really part of it. They are intruders, no amount of glass will ever change that.

There are people like that. They don’t fit into their perception of who they think they are. People like shattered pieces of broken glass put together again but not in the right order. They clatter around and reflect feelings, slowly forgetting how it was to be whole and real.

I think, therefore I am (Descartes). Thinking might be essential for being, but is hardly for living.

Reason is shot through with emotion. I feel, therefore I am.