On the weekends I sleep. I sleep in late, which now days is about ten thirty. I pretend waking up isn't as hard as it was the day before, but I know better.

It's not a peaceful rest. I am exhasted even when I sleep. In my dreams, thoughts of work and feelings angst, permeate my subconscience. Like a high pitched wine, driving the doves away from the nose of the plane during take off.

Except I am not a dove, I am not even a pigeon. I am a boy.
I used to sleep this way because I was depressed. Now I am just stressed, because there aren't enough hours in the day.

I wish I could buy time, but the only way I now how to buy some time, costs too much.

I try writing, just to see if I still can. To see if words still flow together, like they used to. The same way you look in the mirror to see if you still recognize the person staring back.

I don't write anymore, because I have no time, or because the few neurons left, are now preoccupied with design patterns and sql code.

Stories walk past me on the street and dissappear. They used to converse with me and invite me in. They would make me tea, and give me premission to write about them. But they have since copyrighted themselves, changed their locks, and closed their doors.

Recently my company had a representative from John Hancock discuss different investment strategies with us, they are making us carry over our 401K plans, you see.

All through out, he kept calling us DINKS. That is Dual Income, No Kids, DINKS. A couple living in household in which there are two incomes and no children.

Which I guess would make me a SINK.

Today, on Fox News I watched a debate about the marriage penalty, a higher tax which some couples in the top income bracket have to pay. The gist of the debate was about Obama's plan to destroy the world by raising the taxes on couples making over 400 thousand dollars annually. The republican right would have you believe that some really rich people will now stay single instead of getting married. Which is first of all, very good! And second of all, completely warped thinking, in that way that only Rush Limba can explain.

Nobody cares what a bunch of really rich people do, anyway.

Having said that, even John Hancock thinks it's bad to be single. I mean, I am SINK. A SINK! That doesn't sound any good, does it?

i used to have fake nails for a long time. i took them off after three different guys in one day told me that i have nice manicure, because, common, i want people to see me, my soul, my eyes, but not my nails!
oh, well, i got new distraction:

( picture )

Tags: "сказки про Я", констатация факта

мы ходим по одной земле,
мы дышим одним воздухом,
мы верим в почти одну и ту же сказку.
моя сказка пахнет чабрецом и ожиданием.
Твоя - щавелевым супом и верой в светлое.

мы просто еще не знакомы. еще не пробил час, день, век...

когда мы встретимся, Ты узнаешь меня по звону браслетов и настороженности. я пройду мимо, глядя в сторону, стараясь не выпрыгнуть из собственной кожи. Ты догонишь, возьмешь за руку, скажешь: не стоит переводить стрелки, хранить ненужное, бояться завтра, менять устои. Ты научишь меня верить в светлое, я научу Тебя ждать; я позволю Тебе не уходить, Ты позволишь мне забывать. Ты приручишь меня, бездомную кошку, лаской, заботой, любовью, во всех неурядицах и проблемах нас с тех пор будет двое. я забуду вкус тишины, звук одиночества, разрешу себе верность. Ты укроешь меня за семью замками от недобрых взглядов и вселенской скверны. Ты найдешь и выбросишь мой бессмысленный страх, спрятанный в ямочках над ключицами, мы запланируем вечность лет на пятьдесят - шарф один на двоих, связанный нежности спицами.

только, когда появишься, не исчезай, ладно? давай всё будет не как всегда, а душа в душу, складно. давай постараемся не найти предел, не дойти до ручки, не послать все на фиг, не устать, не сломаться, не вернуться обратно, не искать по-красивее да по-богаче. давай построим наш дом, посадим наш сад, вырастим сына. сделай так, чтоб на Тебе сошелся мой свет клином.

а пока мы не встретились - всё слова, всё пустое.
знаешь, этот мир без Тебя ничего не стоит.

Tags: "ненаписанные письмa", рифмоплетство (с)