filozoficznie kakofoniczne rozwa¿ania nad istot± wyboru

kupi³am sobie psa.
co z tego, ¿e 2 tygodnie temu?

mo¿ecie zacz±æ zazdro¶ciæ.

jestem. s± wakacje. i co? i sie koñcz± :/

dzisiaj wróci³am z dzia³ki. wczoraj znalaz³am szyszkê.

znalaz³am szyszkê.

znalaz³am j± i pomy¶la³am... : "dziwne, jest idealnie równa"

patrzy³am na ni±.

i.

i tak na prawdê
to nie by³a idealna.

z jednej strony jeden str±czek by³ troszeczkê wygiêty.
pod spodem jej wierzch by³ nie ca³kiem regularny.

szyszka przesta³a byæ idealn±.

tak samo jest z lud¼mi.

ale zachowa³am j±. ¿eby mi przypomina³a.

i mimo to i tak jest piêkna. taka nieidealna

Long, long time ago, when the stars were blue and heaven was yellow there was a girl called Mei. She was quite small. She was seventeen years old. Her hair was as dark as the deepest night and her eyes were extraordinary green. She was so beauty that no mortal could concurred it. Her skin was perfectly white. Red color of her lips was as intensive as the color of the hottest blood. Her fragile body was like a stalk of grass on the wind. She was perfect. She was so perfect...

And when she was walking, she was walking with passion. When she was talking, she was talking like she could handle it. When she was asking for something, she means it. Her every move was full of fury of elements. Water in her hands - so calmness. Earth in her foots - so sure of everything. Wind in her hairs - so delicate. And Fire in her eyes - fire of desire and restraint. Too little time, oh, to little time...

When the girl was talking, her every breath was like a breath of wind. And when she was singing... her voice sounds like a sing of the most beautiful nightingale. So perfect. So perfect...

But she wasn’t happy. Her whole world was closed in here, in her "okiya". Big wooden house with hundred doors and million windows. And there was a fountain. Large fountain was the only place, which she likes. Water was so cold. And her heart was so hot. Her soul was shouting, but her brain stayed calm. There was no time for love. No time for desire. There were the rules!

And in one moment, she opened her mouth and start to sing:

There's a beauty from the land of the North,
She stands alone in her sole beauty
With one look she can turn over a city
With another look she can turn over a country...

An old man start to clap his hands loudly.
- Arigato - she said

And after that the bird started to sing. She looked at him with sadness in her eyes.
- He’s free - she thought - he’s just free…
She just wanted to cry. She wanted to shout. Hot tears was sticking under her eyelids, but she stayed calm. The bird was still singing. But she couldn’t hear him now. She was a painter of words. Master of conversation. An artist - dancer, musician, interlocutor. A “bijin” - beautiful woman. She was unique.

Geisha. What does it means? It means: no love, no emotions, silence. Totally silence.

Rzygaæ mi siê chce jak patrzê na ten "piêkny ¶wiat" - ulotny sen najwiêkszych z najwiêkszych filozofów i my¶licieli. Jasny szlag mnie trafia gdy patrzê na te wyziewy przeintelektualizowanych wie¶niaków, nie posiadaj±cych za grosz kultury czy jakiegokolwiek poszanowania w stosunku co do innego cz³owieka. Ci¶nienie moje przestaje wyrabiaæ jak tylko dostaje kolejny przyk³ad tego, jacy ludzie potrafi± byæ beznadziejni - i albo s³yszê "udaj±cych m±drych" poetów, albo za¶linionych w³asn± flegm± dresopodobnych poczwar, albo pe³zaj±cych po ulicach ró¿owo¶ci, albo zgry¼liwych, charchaj±cych na wszystko i wszystkich moher-komandosów, wiecznie pomys³owych polskich polityków i ca³ej masy innych jebanych kurwiszonów, przez których nasz arcy-kurwa-piêkny ¶wiat nie jest ju¿ takim arcy-kurwa-piêknym ¶wiatem!

ugh...
od razu ul¿y³o.
nie - to nie by³ zespó³ napiêcia przedmiesi±czkowego.
pozdrawiam wszelkich udaj±cych normalnych.

"...

Bo jest paru ludzi
Bo jest parê w ¿yciu dobrych chwil
Bo jest parê z³udzeñ które warto mieæ by ¿yæ
Choæ raz, tylko raz, tu na ten ¶wiat
Bóg nam pozwala przyj¶æ
Zawsze lepsze co¶ ni¿ nic

..."

a kiedy przyjdzie tak¿e po mnie
Zegarmistrz ¦wiat³a purpurowy
by mi zabe³taæ b³êkit w g³owie
to bêdê jasna i gotowa

sp³yn± przeze mnie dni na przestrza³
zgasn± pod³ogi i powietrza
na wszystko jeszcze raz popatrzê
i pójdê nie wiem gdzie na zawsze

Ju¿ nie potrafiê
pisaæ wierszy takich
jakich bym chcia³a

Nie umiem ju¿
zrobiæ jajka na miêkko
które by mi nie wysz³o

Nie chcê ju¿ rzeczy
wszystko co do szczê¶cia potrzebne
znik³o gdziekolwiek

Nawet kwiat
nie chce rosn±æ wiedz±c
¿e ro¶nie przy mnie

Nie mogê mówiæ
bo nie liczê na zrozumienie

Nie mogê s³uchaæ
bo ju¿ nigdy nie ufam