Tento článok je dostupný iba v angličtine.
There are days of every color. Sometimes it’s light and breezy and full of optimism, sometimes it’s fiery and unbearable, and sometimes it’s just sad, ridiculous and kind of hilarious.
And I keep forgetting as if it were just a tiny detail, that there is nothing possible nor reasonable about these invasive feelings.
It’s just there, like a cute and aggressive animal hiding under the bed, that I innocently feed with heartfelt and completely immoral delusions. It’s constant, unforgiving, and so terribly delicious, and it has slowly colonized all the corners of who I am…
It’s fucking everywhere, under my pillow, in my tea, under the skin of my neck and shoulders, and on the soft back of my tongue… that part that feels the flavors and rolls in smooth pleasurable textures. It feels like a permanent kiss, like a hypnotic black hole where all the particles of identity are absorbed, like a constant desire to taste the universe.
I often try to embalm it in music, a sort of soothing wrapping that would presumably keep it contained… but it makes it worse because in part it has spawned from there. Music is the texture, the substance, the river. All of these waves and sparks travel through the senses and create this complex interpersonal bond and the musical fiber is there at the very center, a canvas of sorts that gets stronger and fuller by the day. It crosses and breaks the barrier of space and time, and makes me feel like this was there since generations and will remain there for ages to come… I am just echoing like an empty cave with the oldest song in the world.
I keep trying to remember how ridiculous and destructive this potentially is… but even that useless part of me is being ambushed and crushed by the horny princess I have inside. Balance is solely being maintained by the Principles Superhero, the one with unwavering compassion that understands how unfair and cruel this whimsical limerence truly is.
I then accept, like the trooper that I really am, that love is best when care keeps it silent and generous. It’s free, happy and becomes fuel for change, to transcend to the next stage of existence and reconquer the forgotten parts of my soul. And I have no other option than to bravely resist the heart-melting energy that holds me when I hear his voice or see his stare because any other stance would destroy the world.
Damn fairy tales…
About the Author
I saw my own blood when I was 3 or 4 years old…
I slipped and crashed onto the sharp angle of a corner wall, in a game of catch with a friend. I didn’t feel a thing, but a warm tingle on my forehead. My mother drove me in a panic to the hospital and handed me a tissue to prevent blood disasters all over the car fabric. And I remember vividly how the first drop of deep red crashed delicately on the pure white paper tissue and slowly expanded its crimson dye under my eyes.
It was entrancing and profound. I felt I was full of this precious essence, circulating through all my human branches and leaves.
“Sereg”, an old elvish word for Blood, disembarked in my life later, but the meaning of it has been attached to me for ages from that first childhood encounter. Wonderful inner magic that connects you to earth, to family, to love, to yourself. It’s the very essence of life that runs through you for constant regeneration… like a perpetually growing plant.
And every time the stressful side of existence dries me out, the simple remembrance of what I carry in me seems to awake the evergreen energy and pushes me back to flourish.
So Blood, because it’s a celebration of the creative and generous self. But also because it is all of existence through the distance and through the ages. Because it is profoundly human and divine. Because it is connection and creation.
No wonder beasts crave it so much.