We are all doomed! The Pesta approaches!
Sun always worked terribly on my skin, but I am reaching new vampiric level this year. My pale skin cracks and sometimes even bleeds. I want this summer to end and give me rain and clouds, so I can enjoy outdoors.
These incidents reminded me my school nickname. Dracula. Nothing that I couldn’t deal with, but still, I envied kids who just pranced like ponies on the sun and I had to noble myself up and pull a fanged aristocrate.
If only I could also live forever. Or have strength or glamour of vampires. In this case, it’s NOT worth it!
Eye for an eye … I attacked an innocent branch with my face, it returned with a defense in the form of a stabbing in my left eye. Leaves and bark scattered, but the eye suddenly went blind. It will pass, but I can’t strain it too much.
On the other hand, I will have a longer time to enjoy the beautiful prose of Maja Lidia Kossakowska.
Anyway, I stare with one eye, like a stereotypical pirate. The only thing missing is a wooden leg, a parrot and a hook …
I feel suddenly an odd urge to look at all those beautiful images of alluring, red-haired Sauron in all his dashing glory. Bonus, if there is a not less glorious shadow of Morgoth behind him.
Or this is not odd at all.
This parasite never stops eating my flesh, drilling in my brain. One day I think I forgot about its existence, the second, it hurts me even more, reminding me that it will accompany me to the rest of my life.
“Depression is really a nasty beast” said my friend today.
“Worthy to have as a trophy” I replied. It’s hard to hunt this worming presence, though. Not impossible… yet harder every year.
But I have so many trophies on my wall.
I must believe.
And how to exist here? The vampire cooks in a forest sauce mixed with mushrooms. 36 of burning Celsius degrees, the sun peels the skin like a red-hot iron glove.
Is this a medieval torture? No, it’s summer in my beloved town. And I, cold-blooded, snow-loving beast (true daughter of the north) and worshipper of the rusty colors of autumn, curse what the world stands on. My feline familiar does long cat and chills the belly on tiles, dog doesn’t even ask for a walk (amazing thing).
And I… I drink lemonade after lemonade and pray to all pagan gods for a storm.
The probability that the storm will come to my town, which her brothers and sisters avoid at all costs, is somewhere like… 20 percent. I still have some hope…
Even my vampiric urge to drink blood ceased, after realising that blood is actually very sticky and mineral water is much more refreshing.
Curse the sun.
I drift away from internet, slowly putting down the mouse and keyboard. Alestorm once or twice sang about thirst for rum. My thirst is for books.
I beat my own life record, reading six books in a week. And I enjoyed all so much, that my wings batted behind me in utter joy. Reading gives me worlds that make me feel less depressed, less pained and less sick. I don’t think about bad that drifts in my life like waste in the sea. I just dive into an odd mix of fantasy, danger, angels, ancient gods and dark magic.
And this is my life since I last checked. I will be making brew with witches and setting up Ragnarok with Loki. Do not search for me – I am fine. Better than before.
When I was a teenager and first time entered the internet world, I thought names can define us in many ways, that they are like clothes which can be changed when we feel the need. Change is good. Change makes us evolve.
And then came the bashing, biting and torment. I was dragged like a wet mouse for changing my nickname every year/half a year. It became a sport to bash people who change the names. Especially me, because I did do that many times.
When I left this toxic gathering, I understood, that names aren’t stick to us like a pin buried deep into our skin, forever. They are not our eternal graves where we rot. We all change every few years and names can change with us – if we want it, if we need it.
And with names, there goes the aura. Atmosphere. And persona we feel at the moment.
Let there be light. Or eternal darkness. Darkness filled with glowing names, each like a fresh fruit, ready to be picked.
I was dusting off the wardrobe, trying to find something that I forgot I had since I was ten. Didn’t find it – but found something that made me terribly nostalgic and broke me into remembering times of my schoolyears.
When I was a teen, I loved Christian Jacq books. He was writing exclusively about ancient Egypt and his writing was immensely simple. But at the same time dwelled so much into common life of egyptian people, into tiny bits about their customs and religion and social structure. Actually, it read like a fairytale, the simple style seemed to flow like a myth by the fire.
I didn’t try to read these books again. I am so afraid to destroy the magic of memories. I know my taste in books changed a lot. Let the egyptian judge and Ramses stay in fondly remembered youth.
Now, I will write second chapter of my new egyptian gods novel. How good is to be inspired.
My country crawls into black hole, where gravity crashes people and grinds them between moons and swallowed planets. Still not embracing why people want to be mashed like potatoes, squeezed like oranges. Because only some masochistic rush to destruction can explain supporting the money-eating, thieving government.
To be completely honest, my cat would be better prime minister, and my dog a better president. One doesn’t need to be batshit insane to bring horse to a senate. Maybe I should name my cat Incitatus. And open before him door to political career.
Books will burn. Human rights too. Everything will fall apart in this rotting sickness that drills Poland alive.