Дим от кървави цигари

   Маги стана и отиде в кухнята. Движение, добре оттренирано. Лютеница и MTV. Металика и няк'ва люлка. Маги мрази израза люлка на... ; като дете тя се люлееше и виждаше нещата по-ясно, а смисъла на израза, това неясно начало... Не. Твърде много клише, за да е класика. Защото Маги силно вярваше, че глупостта остава клише, но никога класика.
   Изми си чинията и погледна през прозореца. Депресета ходят в черно на първи септември. Определението за ходене на училище. Седна на масата и изпи едно малко от запасите на техните. Денят е твърде празен, щом започваш да мислиш с какво можеш да го изпълниш.
   Обу се и излезе. Тротоари. Три пейки, едната заета от кварталния пияница. Още не е тръгнал на лов. Залез. Минута по-късно нищото на след залеза. Защо никой не пише за след залеза?
   Пловдив е досаден минута след залез слънце. Маги седи на бетонен ръб три преки по-надолу. Между блоковете близо до мола. Молът. Кутията на комерсиалния тъпизъм, подхранван от 15-годишни с набъбнали портмонета. Е, историята как банкнотите им от по два лева се натрупаха там не е важна, нали така?! Тя е всеизвестна. Гледа ръждясалия кант на бараката отсреща и се опитва да го превърне в струйка дим от кървава цигара на художник сюрреалист. Определено кървава цигара е по-пълнокръвна метафора за ранена душа. Всички сме опаковани, мамка му!
   Изпушва си последната цигара. Става и лапва няк'ва дъвка. Незнайно защо в днешното общество да хойкаш с някого, чието лице нямаш време да запомниш, е по на почит от пристрастеност към никотина.
    Надува Dead Inside на слушалки. Маги не е dead inside. Пука се по шевовете inside out.
   Уупс, кола до пешеходната пътека.
    Не, не я прегазиха. Само камион ( или за по-стилно - ТИР )  щеше да свърши тази работа. Гадното безпощадно шведско извратено VOLVO заковава на място. Маги пресича.
    Съжалявам, драматичният край не е и днес.
    Прибира се. Лютеница на филия и MTV. Запасът на техните е изчерпан.


01/09/2015

The Lucky Block ( Nothing More )

The hazy air of a cloudy September day. East wind caresses faces of no kind. They are all walking rhythmically, as if a conductor executes a devoting act on their heart rate. A single march harmony... Beat up - beat up - beat down.

Strangers speaking, giggling, slowing down pointless revelations; outgoing nutsies, antisocial freaks, trivial people in their glamorous decay. A crowd.

Amongst the mass, a spot of different origin is slowly moving. He. He steps confidently submerged in doubt for this vane world, for this empty scene. Passing by glittering shop windows and their on-lookers, bookstores and fake in-depth readers, the cafe's full of ignorance crowds seem the most sophisticated fraction at the city centre. 

He walks in unknown direction; relies on the spontaneous. Nothing spontaneous. Observing this deadly boring crowd, He decides to go left and enters the block. It turns out to be the same old block that he has walked through countless times. 

A sunny afternoon in July, building flash their heat to the innocent victims of the Sun. Moments of mere haze in Plovdiv when he used to dream of nothing more than he had... His beloved by him, her guitar in his hands, the profound creation of nothing more than gentle motion over strings. 

It all sounds now as a bland dream of stocky past time. "There should not be anything wrong in memory, " he reckons.

Another spring memory flooded his mind. It was an April day, outstanding with nothing more than any other. It was simply the day of their first... Date ( which sounds too inappropriately trivial ). It was the day when they spent some time together, laughed and The Beloved One went straight into the question.

"I really like you. Do you like me?" 

He nodded yes. Then on, they continued examining the depths of their souls; they sank into each other till they touched the bottom. 

Here, at these streets, in this block they shared secrets and days, the bread of their spirits.

He opens the door of a small shop. It is a tobacco shop with sweets and sweets ...

The woman behind the pile of sweets says "Hi." And asks what He wants. Like this, straight into the question. He looks at her and says he doesn't know, he will pick up in a while. The blonde is not happy. Who cares?

Everything is too connected - the cigarettes, the sweets, the old plasma television above the carrot juices. He picks up nothing for his pockets are empty. As usual, whenever one's satisfaction depends on long-termed relationship, as with men and money, it is an already fight. He slowly turns left, ready to go out, when his dark chocolate eyes meet a red box screamingly imprinted "Lucky Cookie" on.

Why not? A luck. What fucking luck could you have, He? The Beloved One left you with no love, no explanation, no voice, no guitar, no strings. Right here your luck left you. Why not ironically try to get a new one?

He laughs at the thought of paying 0.5 levs for a life-changing good. Yep. 

He pays and leaves the shop. He goes up one of the hills. Passing through the cobbled street, the shops and the tedious embraced couples, he finally reaches the TV hill. He is alone.

He sits on a rock and gazes at the city down there. Where is she now? Is she alone? Is she sad? Or happy? Is she thinking of someone? Or is someone else thinking of her?

No, probably not. He is not right. Many will now think of her. He recalls the time before they started meeting more often. She had her friends; they were awesome. He was the outsider but they didn't mind as long as he listened to Aerosmith, knew a few songs' lyrics by heart and didn't bother them too much - it was ok. So the wild girl in jeans and silence is probably not alone now. 

What a luck? To be left with nothing more than solitude, poverty and sorrow. Yep. It is a base.

He opens the plastic package and puts it into his pocket. Cracks the cookie and pulls out the luck; puts aside the cookie.

"Unwind your headphones!" 

End.

How to define an aesthete?...

On the late night train to the crappy non-hometown. It's already dark. Three more people in the department. Today was a morally-to-be-questioned day. All day I am absent in the field of my own questions. During sleep. During dreaming. During washing  my face. During drinking the dubious beverage at Zhoro's. What is the damn little object that is always on the way to getting on the journey to real psychology? One has to know their psychological pros and cons to be happy/successful/honest/peaceful. So I am trying. The train sets off. It's dark even at the isle of the damn train. There are just a few lamps out there . I can't really see the fewer trees at the depot station. They're thoroughly swallowed by the close darkness. At the other end of the department a woman of middle age is as I see just another observer of the outside-the-window darkness. She has a strange looking adornment on her maybe red hair. It's a kind of symmetrical plastic tool for keeping hair tight. Then I start thinking.
All day ( and the many days before ) I was throwing my mental baggage at the direction of people. But it was not the people. It was , actually were, two things.
Ethics and aesthetics.
That's the answer. There is no questions anymore, Hamlet.
It's the truth. People, even the whole society, have got used to hiding and killing their aesthetic feelings and aspirations for the sake of ethics. A simple but very important difference. It is vital for one to be aware of it.
Yes. The adornment. Here is how ethics makes people use the aesthetic aspect of symmetry, but doesn't allow one to give the answer symmetrically rude to a rude question.
In terms of spirituality, ethics is what gives the acknowledged frame of an aesthetic feeling. But this frame is brutal. Every frame is brutal as it is a boundary, a restriction.
What makes one an aesthete - the acknowledged symmetrical adornment or the metaphorical answer to an improper question?...