An abandoned green tea plantation,
Entwined with wild, thorny blackberry branches.
A snake is coiled around them.
A child watches,
Thinking whether to go closer or not.
This scene feels like a fairy tale,
Something you cannot see every day...
Where enchanting serpents slither,
Mesmerizing in their beauty,
Hidden through the winters,
Seeking warmth,
In a magical world, brimming with cunning.

I woke up early today. I have a lot to do: handwritten texts to type up on the computer. But I’m feeling lazy even the thought of lifting a finger for this work feels like a chore, even though it’s paid.

In one sentence, I came across a thought on realism it said, “How real are we?” I think we might actually have a chance to be real.

We choose the dusty street  
Because we want to notice  
The specks of dust sparkling in the sun.  
We wish to rest  
Leaning against cold, Gothic walls,  
Yearning to enter closed houses.  
Often, beautiful words are not amazing—  
Especially when we witness tragedy.  
Who wrote our poems?  
With wondrous words, though they do not resemble us.  
We protect trees from pests with paint, yet no one protects us.  
The wooden planks of deceit are finely planed,  
Yet we hear the deafening drumbeat—  
While the quiet serenity of the lyre reaches us.  
When we burn dried grass on the bonfire,  
We find comfort in the smell of the charred grass.

Sometimes it feels like I live inside my own head
Until I step outside,
Look at people,
Listen to their conversations.

We often think that one person cannot change anything
But we’re mistaken,
One often decides,
In most cases.

Sometimes, as Houellebecq would say,
we want to be in someone or the opposite,
constantly desired, we just need the right person.

Do not resemble another
For autumn won’t touch them the way it touches you.
Your taste receptors will never be the same.
Your dreams are not alike.
You won’t understand the same book in the same way.
Do not say you are the same,
Even if you are twins.
The déjà vu that grasps you for a moment
Detaches you from reality—
You are not another, not in another time,
You are one individual
In the present dimension.
You are not other.
Let us create catharsis for ourselves,
For we seldom feel it from others.

Uncontrolled dreams overwhelm me,
Last night, I dreamed of you, my friend.
Even in the dream, you kept insisting
That you like older women.
I told you, You’re a true gerontophile,
Just like me after all, I married a 48-year-old man years ago.
The amazing thing is,
If I could choose
I’d still make the same choice.
You said, “I love it when my women wear glasses
With clear lenses.”
Ah, what a jokester you are, my friend.
Our dreams bring us closer…

The one we feared
In our deep childhood,
That filthy one hurt us.
A child is never wrong.
Let us never forgive
Our tears.

It is painful to be a perfectionist,
Mistakes hurt me.

Do you love the coffee placed in the machine more, or the aroma that fills the room during the brewing process?

At work, I loved to read,
I had a small salary,
But I had the chance
To read books.
I found my inspiration
In William Blake and his painting of Death on a Pale Horse
Time has passed, but my heart has not grown cold toward them.
Now I’m reading J. M. Coetzee,
Smoking more cigarettes,
Enduring the summer heat.
Perhaps somewhere in the West,
There’s a woman who resembles me...

Our graves were in kurgans,
Our shelter was in caves,
We painted on rocks,
We warmed ourselves with animal fur,
We hunted,
We perceived beauty less,
We sang with howls,
We slept together,
What we thought about, only God knows.

You stand by your black grotesque Mercedes, it's hot, your skin burns in the sun.
You're calling me.
Today I must leave you -
I know I'll go home, write a long letter, say goodbye to you.
Summer for me is a period of solitude.
I love being in the shadow of scorching summer trees, in the cold walls of a room.

Oh, how you really want to sit in your village yard,
where you can smell the scent of walnut leaves,
in a wooden chair.
Without a word,
in the contemplation of silence,
as the last autumn sun warms your body.

On the land where solitude walks,
Its silence has an abyss.
What might change
By breaking it
The vow of silence broken.

It’s still warm in Texas, the tropical humid zones have hot weather, and it's cold where I am.
I wish it were even colder.
I think about those people who don’t like the heat
how do they endure in eternally scorching countries.
I’d probably emigrate if I didn’t have four beautiful seasons.

Today, I’m happy because everything is fine. Nothing can spoil my mood. These periods often scare me, though
I always feel like I'm waiting for something bad to happen.

I’m doing nothing, just listening to Christophe’s Les Paradis Perdus, and peace has settled in my heart.

I got cold.
This cold, as always, caused sleep paralysis,
Being in complete darkness.
Today I was thinking, as on other days,
About you.
Thinking of you causes white pain.
I would probably compare myself to Orpheus,
Who sings to Eurydice,
I would look back never to see you again.
sleep paralysis,
Evil that unfolds within us.

It's absurd to claim that I don’t place my slippers by the bed every day. They’re always there, untouched, just as I left them. But still, I’ve wondered before waking up, will they be there where I left them?

If we are bothered by someone else's smell, imagine how uncomfortable they must feel, not being able to get rid of it themselves.

Living in the suburbs has a special charm, especially if you live in one of the quarters of Tbilisi's Varketili district, where the sea is also nearby: tall buildings, scorching heat, and mulberry trees in the yard, whose pungent smell reaches your nostrils.

The noise of the neighborhood, gatherings, conversations around the table, drinking, smoking, hoodies, jeans, sneakers, Adidas—these are what reflect fashion trends, taking their beginnings and energy from the suburbs and sticking around.

Here, you'll encounter Soviet-era kiosks covered in rust. Larger-scale parks and children whose voices color the world, reaching the silent concrete buildings.

The political atmosphere is more superficial; there's not much to capture in photos, but if you head to the sea, a camera will definitely come in handy.

I have an apartment for sale.

When you read a poem from another era,
where certain themes were forbidden,
it feels as though the author died in that moment,
unable to express the words exactly as they wanted.

Goats fallen into the ravine
Their blood on the rocks,
Every moment is dangerous,
A herald of death,
A goat lying down
To rest on the rocky hill,
Hidden from land predators.

The possibilities of humans are limitless,
All the goodness that intelligent minds offer us is immeasurable.
I often call them gods—
I worship the book—
I worship the hacker who managed to cleanse my computer from a dark virus.
You would be a liar if you’ve never once worshipped someone or something.
Now I drink wine,
I recall Dionysus,
Or I simply thank the winemaker for the beautiful wine.

One day when I left the house,  
I wandered through the streets of Station Square.  
I was at the casino,  
Not to gamble, but for the spectacle.  
I was walking quickly back home when the only valuable thing I had,  
A Canon camera, fell onto the curb.  
But I returned home calmly,  
That day, I remembered you,  
I sensed you had a problem.  
I wished your wife would lose her child.  
A short while later, a horrible pain struck my abdomen,  
As if one of the vampires from a book  "Interview with the Vampire"had devoured my insides.  
More than that, I entered the bathroom,  
Started vomiting blood.  
I thought for a while, then realized,  
You have the power of pain.  
Now, when I feel the same,  
I curl up on the bed, soothing you.

Silence deepens within me like a black rock,
when scientists discovered that even plants speak in their own language.
My silence remains silent, like a thorned rose untouched by anyone.
Only I know the depths of that rock, the breath of the rose’s silence.
And my black heart,
my breath of stone,
which is terrifying like the portrait of  Gray, weighed down by its gravity.
my hands that cross in sleep, protecting me from loneliness.
Oh, my silence,
my silence,
silence,
dark silence,
shrouded in mystery,
you, yourself, within your own being.

I was simply singing,
watching red poppies
in the field,
thinking of nothing,
just remembering
the sea of my childhood,
as Banville does
in his book.
How pleasant it is,
even in winter,
to hear the murmur of the sea.

In a maddened world that has taken root within us, we are poisoned, poisoned by the selfishness of leaders for whom no dose of calming medicine can be found.

I met a thief and told him, "Leave my wallet." He left, but that day he probably lost the desire to steal.

My mind is like an overgrown field, mixed with thorns and weeds.
Like a wandering dervish, but not at peace.
I think I’ll smoke a cigarette on the veranda,
with coffee.
Or maybe I’ll take a long walk,
to open a door for these stifling thoughts.

During travel,
I love looking at the mountains,
the roads lit with lamps,
simply staying with myself,
sleeping,
reading, for example Lessing,
the world seen from the window, the houses,
the human trace in these houses.

We brought saplings of trees,
radiant peach, apple.
We nurtured them, they bore divine fruit.
I wanted to export them, but in vain,
says the farmer from Gori to the journalists.

I cut them all down, cut them down to save my time and nerves.
I cried,
and the trees shed tears as well.
I destroyed the fruit of Eden.

Spring seems to have died,
I’m inhaling the scent of rotten lilacs.
I taste the chocolate you brought me...
Drunk, I smoke a cigarette,
but I can’t feel it.
I drag my feet lightly on the road, slamming the rough soles of cowboy boots.
I cry,
I want something that doesn’t exist in nature,
something immaterial.
I can still feel your cold hand on my shoulder.

Red roses planted in a filthy ravine,
For the bliss of passersby.
Brought there by witches –
Visually stunning,
Left at the mercy of rain,
Blooming red.
The wise will say it is in honor of the mortals –
While the lowly will glance with irony,
Their eyes deceitful.
Just as Venus embodies perfect beauty,
Red creations have emerged in this filthy place,
Tender roses, the ravine’s charm.

If we offer kindness to others, as Viridiana did for the homeless in Buñuel's film, we would have to re-educate them from the beginning so they could adapt to this noble gesture?  You are not truly great and forgiving if you expect this in return.

There’s a kind of exhaustion like the one I have a void and at that moment, you might listen to a music track like Snow Surfin' Matador for a bit of energy.

Sometimes, we don’t know
if we’re happy or unhappy,
confusion follows us
like a three-year-old child.

We get lost in the discovery of talent.
Maybe we’re good at dancing or knitting,
we write let’s try.
We might have even been a good pilot.

Who knows, who knows.

For some reason, very wealthy people think they’ll impress us. I remember when I was eighteen, a member of the middle class. A wealthy person invited my friend and me to see their home.

Everything seemed revolting: leather furniture, glossy floors, brown tones everywhere, dark crimson velvet curtains, and that standard coffin-like smell of oak. We talked, but I didn’t eat anything I didn’t even feel like it. In general, I can’t eat around people, filling my stomach without the desire to feels absurd, and I can’t eat in a crowd.

We went outside to smoke, and the host said, “Come on, let me show you the second floor.” But we refused. He was so surprised that he couldn’t hide his reaction his face practically asked, “Who do you think you are?” His expression didn’t surprise me at all.

He drove us home in his huge Land Rover, speaking to us harshly. I still run into him sometimes on the street. Now, it’s me who’s surprised he has little left to show.

Words settled in the brain,
Left behind by others,
Remind us of them.
We often wish to erase them forever.
In moments of crisis,
The dirtiest and most tainted words come to mind,
While those drowning grasp onto good words.
Words are insignificant to some, they say,
Yet they still leave red lines on our white ribbons.