Since childhood, I had a complex—my legs.
Even though I ran through the neighborhood,
through the techno district, the park, and Chekhov’s little house,
through the abandoned dairy factory,
climbed over the fence into the Fairy Tale Glade,
held my own in a game of tag,
I could change direction in an instant,
unexpectedly for whoever was chasing me.
Reaching out my hand, I’d glide away.

But that never stopped people from saying,
“God, you’re so skinny. Look at those legs.”
I hated summer—
not because of the heat, but because of the shorts.
Summer meant the boat beach, the green zone.
I could dive like a coffin, like a bomb,
sending up decent splashes.
The entrance near the boat station cost 3 hryvnias,
yet the local spot was free.
And there was a café nearby with music.
I remember they played The Doors.

I was 22, and I lived with those who didn’t love me.
I twisted the same ankle 4 times in 6 months.
December 21, 2012.
I tore my ligaments.
End of the world.

I had only started breakdancing a couple of months before,
had just learned the splits.
And then—on the snow, I nailed it.
The guys carried me under their arms.

I twisted my left ankle four times
because I wasn’t listening to it.
I was supposed to run—
but I turned back.

The fourth time was the scariest—
on flat ground, for no reason.
I thought I’d broken it.
The pain was endless.
Night. Emptiness.
The first trolleybus.
I barely made it,
leaning on a stick for support.

“Conductor, sorry, I have no money. Just one stop.”
“****, man.”

But everything healed.
It didn’t hurt anymore.
I never went to a doctor.

I kept twisting my ankle,
even on even ground.
I kept going.
In the end, everything hurt.
I felt broken—
then put back together.

Maybe that’s what being a b-boy means to me.

And my legs?
They only became full
once they hit the road.

Morning, dew, time to part ways.
We are crazy.
All the stages of…
…closeness, we’ve passed through.
A fun night, legs are hurting.
I want…
…more of it.
Everyone’s going somewhere, **** it, this one…
…is going to work. He’s already gone.
Everyone wants to die,
or just keep going.
Home…
…to walk back.
Dew, yellow streetlights, zombies on the buses.
Victory — I’m in bed.
I photographed everything.
I know this.
Now it feels like it’s been six years since…
…those photos.
But not in my head.
I’m going to sleep.
Who’s falling in love?
Taxi drivers?
Sunburned…
…from the sun and endless coffee and cigarettes
that fall onto their bellies.

Yes, they are calm.
Cool, like stars at the bottom of a bottle.
Graceful,
brutal,
nurturing, like mothers,
but with paint on their lips.
They hold meaning —
like the fear of life,
like the fear of death,
and many die in between.
They fear nothing.
They aren’t afraid to shoot up,
they aren’t afraid to pluck the forbidden fruit,
they aren’t afraid of snakes.
They move easily, breaking through walls,
not looking back,
knowing how to live.
They brought us into this world,
while we stand between two walls with a guard.
Only the bravest break through,
like cowboys tipping their hats in the saloon.
While the wall smolders,
the one behind presses in,
trembling with cowardice, eager to crawl over us.
Muscular, wild,
*******.
We are stuck,
because we are afraid,
because life is terrifying,
because the fear of death —
is the only certainty,
and it’s not scary.
All that’s left is to push it
and go after them,
but it’s already too late.
The wall behind closes you underground,
like a quiet nightmare of Kafka,
where you are alone in this madness,
and the world tightens its grip.