Life is like a kaleidoscope,
in which we lose ourselves.
Sometimes we change the frames,
but often we stare at the same spot.
Meanwhile, it comes to an end old age arrives.
And then we start looking into it all over again,
just to recall the frames of the past.

When the river strikes the rock,
The scorching sun,
The river leeches
That look like tadpoles,
And your face reflected in the water
Long fingers,
Golden hair,
A sharp voice.

When night falls
In a meadow full of mosquitoes
Thirsty for our blood,
We will avoid them.
Everything is abstract
Every cloud in the sky...

If you ever wander into an uncut forest,
pause think of the future,
for it is no different from that forest.

It’s a simple truth, quietly philosophical.

Sharp stones and thorns
may not please us,
but on life’s path,
they are unavoidable.

The mind seeks training:
to adapt, to merge,
to express strength
in subtle details.

And when we begin again,
to ask why we exist,
the answer comes
as if from a simplified lesson.

Yet the true meaning lies
in facing the obstacle,
and each lesson,
in the end,
is perfect philosophy.

I’m reading Old Masters by Thomas Bernhard a work of pure genius.
It stirred thoughts about public service, about the state’s attitude toward us, and perhaps, just as much, our attitude toward it.
It led me to ponder art itself, the very essence of perfection, and the weight of meaning within words.
Madness  the refined kind  lives and breathes within these pages.
They say something can be “madly good”  no phrase fits this book better.
I’ve always loved playing the role of a researcher, especially when a book is such a pleasure to read.

With scratched hands
I picked blackberries.
The summer days were blissful.
Out of the bushes
I met a witch
a fat witch,
with black hair and a long tongue
whose tongue carried me home.

Catherine, from Jules and Jim,
arranges suicide.
I watch it, like an act
after a light smoke
she isn’t ******,
she keeps the balance.
It’s a classic film.

Rats in the garbage.
My thoughts arrange the evaporation of the brain
after drinking *****.

If the sun rises,
I’ll get a tan.

I think I'll go somewhere,
settle alone.

I pondered on the fallen angel.

No matter how dark my thoughts are on the essence of the universe,
I love the piercing Cold so much.

Even God grows evil.

I pondered on the fallen angel.



I'll settle in Alaska.
Black branches, Naked branches.

With anarchist behaviors We turn our backs on all the proud ones - I thought about virtue, forgiveness - But no, Even God grows evil.
I love winter, Black branches.

When dreams stretch wide and remain impassable,
I see you
yet upon waking, I return to myself,
carrying the sense that the dream has seeped into reality.
Perhaps the white spring flows only through dreams,
and every touch
is always transient.

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.

Something spins in the mind, trying to defy reality
You experience the extreme
You feel an otherworldly desire, accompanied by absurdity
You think of this extreme,
Of this desire
Simply reading is a stimulation of the mind
For fantasy.

The girls were walking down the path,
Today there was a theatre performance at school.
Each had a ticket in her bag,
It was raining, and one of them got her shoes wet, her socks.
Her feet were aching from the cold,
But she wanted to see the theatre performance.
At home, she returned heartbroken,
Frozen.
The theatre performance turned out to be a low-budget production.

I used to have a limping cat
incredibly calm. Her name was Keso.
I often worked at the computer,
and Keso would sit by my feet.
Then I left home.
After I was gone,
white Keso passed away.
I haven’t had a cat since.
When I get older,
I plan to give a home to a stray cat.

Easter, for me, is associated with the Narcissus
because back where I used to live,
Narcissi always bloomed in the yard.

True, this religious holiday
has a deeper meaning
the resurrection of Christ
but a yard full of blooming Narcissi
and the joy of children running around
has always made me associate this flower with brightness.

Just rituals
and Narcissi,
bright like the sun.

The child rests in the shadow of trees,
Weighed down by the quarrels of the parents,
Sadness crumbles like dry mud,
Crying without tears.

What’s the weather like in Tokyo?
And I don’t know
but I feel like it will rain today.
My love for Japan doesn’t leave me.
Maybe one day I’ll fly away.
Right now I’m reading a Murakami book
and listening to Schubert,
but I’m not driving in a convertible.

I never say warm words
on gloomy days,
my words are as sorrowful as a cloudy day.
I never read worthless books...
I never want to go blind, and if it happens, like Borges,
let someone else read books to me.

Who will feed the crows,
and who will drink the freshly pressed cherry juice
from a transparent glass?
Who will feed the crows with carrion?
I know one man!

Maybe you’ll go somewhere,
Or you’ll pull over and enter some ***** hotel along the road.
You’ll drink ***** and eat something with meat.
Then you’ll go up to the room and fall asleep
calmly,
as if nothing were weighing on your heart.

In the morning, you’ll feel a terrible headache,
you’ll go down to the lobby
and drink a glass of ***** with a pickled cucumber.
You’ll start the car.
You’ll want to go to the sea and you will.
You’ll go, and you’ll cool off.
Your body will calm down.
Then you’ll lie on the sand
and cover your face with a scrap of newspaper
so the sun won’t disturb you.

Back home, everyone will ask where you were,
but their thoughts and questions
won’t mean anything to you.

What is ignorance?
I have thought about it a lot
and concluded that it is
mindless pride
empty and meaningless.

When you don’t know how to treat others,
when you fail to understand another’s pain,
then it no longer matters
how many books you have read,
for you cannot even hold a conversation
without hurting the one you speak with.

Neli: We probably live in chaos…
Irene: No, we’re just in political chaos.
Neli: I agree. How much does the Dutch cheese I love cost?
Irene: More than love. ))
Neli: My husband says my love costs him a lot.
Irene: Hahaha.
Neli: When I was working, he never said that. But I always reply that love is priceless though I do love exotic and truly expensive dishes.
Irene: Well, isn’t love worth being expensive? Like the price of a Gucci bag.
Neli: Of course!
Irene: Hahaha.

A small swamp where you cannot sink,
cannot hide in the clouds,
and cannot heal wounds by resting your head on your mother’s lap.
When pain and sorrow surge through your body at once,
it means you feel adulthood.

Caramelized popcorn with chocolate is my favorite. In general, I compare popcorn to the freshly blossomed quince flowers of spring.
Today, I bought some for a movie.
I wanted to write about it.

The house with the terrible smell of cow's blood,
And their hot manure, which would stain the house of my childhood,
Where such things happened,
Horrifying colorful images.
And not the kind that comes from Doris Lessing's words,
This flesh is not for charity,
It’s livestock for sale at the market,
Impossible to regulate...
The dried pork my grandmother saved for me,
Which I never eat,
A bite of my lunch.
Wrapped in newspaper, a good piece,
Redirected to the neighbors,
Little young calves,
With eyes wide open,
Their meat cooked with herbs,
Their skins salted,
Their cries hide in my heart,
Death is coming,
You turn into a dead corpse,
But their eyes stare in vain,
And the feet of the calves hop involuntarily,
It's a sad morning, says my uncle,
And with peasant manners, he smokes a cigarette.
The corpse, loaded into the car,
Dragged for sale,
My uncle brings water from the well,
Drinks it like a pig, burping,
I feel nauseous,
And I wonder where the black birds are,
But my uncle doesn't die in an accident,
The days repeat,
The pear trees that cover the yard with their branches,
The window panes reflect their shadows,
Why doesn't my heart stop,
During the ball game?
Weighed down by someone else’s sin,
I approach the ******* stone,
While my uncle urinates under the tree.

Keep the strawberry pie,
You sit on the couch in a tidy house.
Staring at the walls,
You start scrolling through Instagram
The same hellish selfies over and over,
But you draw tree branches with fallen leaves in pencil.

A white seagull sits by the riverside,
Children's voices echo from the park,
The scent of spring lingers in the air.
I wait for the peach blossom to bloom...

I created an ambient music playlist on Spotify I'll probably listen to it when I decide to meditate, but I think it's a really good one.

Snow melted on hair,
A cheerful child, all laughing,
Stuffed snow in pockets.

*

A poor man ate bread,
Sipped his tea, lost in thought
A sad bird flew off.

The sound of heavy metal fills the headphones,
Like the kiss of a hungry couple.
I begin to jump,
Because dancing has never been my thing.
My body follows the rhythm...
Cold outside, I feel lightheaded,
And I fall.

The road whispers softly,
Trailing the river’s edge.
I do not wish to fall asleep by the blackberry bush
Thorns surround it.
When spring returns,
The blooming peach tree
Will wait for the swallow’s black wing,
But you will not come back.

The maddest wind
Tangles your hair,
Tears fall from your eyes
It’s not crying, just an allergy to the weather.
The colors are dark,
Like in fairy tales,
Rotting wooden houses
Buried deep in the forest.
Thoughts are swirling
With fleeting impressions.

We watch the sunrise from our window,
Yet we don't know what we already do
Are we really together?
It rules out every possibility.

An Italian cocktail,
Lemon perfume
Are you here?

And every word I've said
Fades softly into dawn
It's 5:29 AM.

We fight for identity,
and on the stone placed on this path, we fall.
Like Sisyphus, we are ambitious,
it would be magnificent to see
if we could observe ourselves from a distance.

Where is utopia or disappointment in death?
Or maybe the stretched-out black silence
is death in hell
when neither the devil sings to lead you to him,
nor does God.
a suicide,
lying in the darkness at a crossroads.

I am not afraid of death,
It has simply taken root,
Killing everyone in its reach...
I never attend funerals.

I was taking the elevator when the doors opened, and my neighbor’s pitbull appeared.
I got confused and held my key chip to the sensor so it would go away.
I love dogs, but I wasn’t expecting such a sudden encounter.

Today
In the outlets, they were giving out flowers for Valentine's Day.
It was a foggy day.
I bought The Argonauts by Maggie Nelson.
I think I dressed a bit hippie, as usual, and my hair is dyed.
I just liked myself today, or rather, yesterday. This doesn’t happen often, I’m not really a narcissist.

Perhaps the source of immortality exists,
If it truly does, I don’t want it.
I only wish there were an elixir of eternal youth.
Scientists, through cellular rejuvenation, may likely achieve this result.
I would simply ponder how worthwhile these scientific interventions are.

Hopelessness died with death itself
and as long as you live, hope remains.

Yes, she collected bags
to be precise, souvenir bags and packets.
Two whole shelves in her cabinet were filled with them,
and let’s not forget
she knew the story behind each one.

The children who went to pick mushrooms
passed by graves and abandoned factories along the way.
Perhaps ghosts lived there too.
They examined the photographs
engraved on the tombstones with curiosity,
while their grandmother dragged dry branches
to start a fire
and cook the mushrooms.

I feel light,
as if right before death
or maybe I’m already dead and writing.
Who can make sense of life?
I’ll just go out onto the balcony,
smoke a cigarette,
keep up the routine,
and act as if I’m alive.

And where is the quail,
in which grass is it hiding?
I have seen it flutter
on dry grass, then disappear somewhere,
with its wheat-colored  feathers
it hides in the fields,
so it won't end up
on the hunter's pan,
a target of his hunger.

We like this couple.
They kiss and tenderly embrace each other,
but we are very hungry.

Eternity ends for us when our time runs out,
when love dies with us.
We either turn to soil or to ashes,
yet somewhere, we will still exist
we cannot erase our trace.

Wife: Do you think the new purchase brings us closer?
Husband: Brings us closer?
Wife: Yes, that’s what I think the pleasure caused by buying something new.
Husband: Yeah, that’s true.
Wife: You’re a tight-lipped leech.
Husband: Don’t even heat it up.
Wife: Sometimes, you seem very beautiful to me.
Husband: Hahaha.
Wife: I miss the snow. Take me to Bakuriani.
Husband: Let’s go next year.
Wife: I’d go to the village, but nothing can warm up the cold rooms.
Husband: And the rats.
Wife: Hahaha.

We are most stripped bare
when we await catharsis.
Our hands weaken,
and our faces grow serene.
We are like the fragrant, blossoming flowers of spring
that soon wither,
yet their bulbs emerge again
to bloom anew in another spring's flowers.

You closed the black doors,
like a sealed temple
if such a thing exists.
You made your dwelling in various dark hearts,
slipped into a locked latch.
Dry leaves rustle under your feet in the silence of the night,
and like a stray dog,
you don’t know in whose house you’ll awaken.

Warm winter climate change.
This year, I couldn’t go to the resort.
I feel miserable because of it
I miss the snow so much.
I would probably take a lot of pictures,
But I made a promise to myself: next year, I’ll go.
In my city, water freezes, but, sadly, there’s no snow.

By the roadside stands a house that is mine,
In the yard, a mulberry tree,
Now cut down,
Because flies swarmed around it.

The scent of fig and walnut trees,
And many others
Some withered,
Some flowing with the river of life.

A house that waits for me,
Closed and locked,
In the cellar, perhaps,
Rats are hiding.

The price of something, precise and clear,
To know the price of an object, matter, or our failure.
Of a powerless state of mind,
Or the ice cream we eat.