To Bulgakov

“Whoever has said it that the pure and honest love does not exist – tear their tongues out for they are filthy liars!” Forgive me, Bulgakov, but it really doesn’t. There is no love, neither pure nor honest. But we still believe in it. So, there is faith. Blunt, blind faith…

I am blind.

“Coz this is free love… Let go of complicated feelings and there is no price to pay” – David Gahan is whispering sweet seduction into my ears… Spoken by the true non-believer, I say. But on constant repeat on my earphones… How ironic.

And all the attempts to demonstrate how terribly wrong all this is have failed and my battle is lost. Why have I send that text? The bullets have missed the target, the stings have left no marks and the message has never reached the intended recipient. And somewhere across the globe a strange overpowering sensation won’t make him rush to the phone and dial the number just to hear my trembling hoarse voice… A miracle won’t happen, but reality will. Tomorrow will be another gloomy day, sore throat, a cup of coffee on the corner of St James’ and Piccadilly, some unnecessary and pretentious ‘things to do’ and heaps, heaps of colourful memories, scattered across my mind like shiny candy wraps on the floor, pretty, but now empty and… unwanted…

Oh, and the radio becomes your number one enemy! You hate every single song. Coz each one of them is not just cool lyrics and a catchy melody, it’s an entire world worth epochs of emotions, memories, words, touches, smells…

How different we all are – born with the same set of feelings but don’t even feel the same. He measures life in hours and days. I measure life in songs, conversations and sunsets. How different our values are! It’s so simple for someone to turn around and leave, close the door, board a plane and leave this small island behind, while someone would just never be the same again. So, what does it mean for us? Plain and simple: nothing.


Washington DC – Edinburgh. Edinburgh – London. London – … Um… Amsterdam?

Winter, 2010


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