Now this is it, energies of writing or middle of a night Devils in my blood or the pressure of the time and emotions or the perfection of chaos and order of disorder but I do pronounce the seriousness of my will to express myself out in a magical rainbows and waterfalls of words, cause I've came to the final conclusions and I will tell the whole stories, happenings of the reality, coloured memories; now I am really ready to catch up with the hole of an effort being ready to test me on the most Earthed ways, to balance up my spirit with distorzion leading to a new work of art or psyche. Lots of HAPPENINGS and lots of things are here all at once, so who can tell about it in an fluid movement of a rythm with the meaning of the most ingenuos feeling of such a complicated realities which have the power to transform them artistically in a novel? This is the calling of a Muses, this is the provoking of an alchemy of letters, this is an attack on the self to get rid of disturbance of sound wawes and to express the silence. So let's start.
For a long, long, very long time, probably the longest you can imagine, I waited to feel the way I feel right now; the sound of a tapping of a rain drops on the roof of the house I live in, finnaly living and writing, kicked me out of sleep for dozen times before I finnaly woke up full of words filled with magical intuition that they will spill on a paper just like rain finnaly slides from the roof with several unkonwn but real ways into the manholes of a wet street. The taste of guilt melted with the thrill of a thrive blended in my energetic need to sparkle the monitor of a laptop with such a constructive force which can handle the burdon of a century and millenium, the time which got us stunned with it's puzzled absurdities and contradictions and intelligence of a Dark Pisches and overwhealming Maddened Kid the Aquarious. For a long, veeery long time, the rain was drizzlying on my rooftop window and lightenings were breaking thru with their magnetic beauty and luxury to my half asleep view from the void, for a long time, before I finnaly woke up and put the water for a coffee to boil.
Hangover. I drank one liter of water and will be drinking one more, with freshly squeezed orange and lemon juice, with warm coffee, with soft tobacco, with the sound of a tapping of a rain drops that cheerfully and somehow prophetically announce the Music with their synchronized sound in my warm brain. 5 am, winter, alone - I finnaly feel like ME after a long long difficult time of temptation, suffer and army-like discipline of a spiritual self control.
I would like to talk about the rain firstly. She falls, she was falling and will be falling all over our gardens and our heads with her modest quiet blissful beauty i she'll keep us away from ominous sorrow ideals and non patiance and stubborns and falling apart with her mothering protection. The rain is our very mother, mother of all poets, dreamers, everyone who has a hunch of universal happening and who're dazed with reality and boring people and of all the little, lost, barefoot, thirsty people and they all love the rain and she really protects us and greets us and her drops are happy and every drop is sacred and her smell is in every atom of our wet souls and years gone by and imagined heavens on a horison of future.
I was sitting alone and thoughtful when she fell for the first time this last summer, when she scattered all the hot fat sickness of heat, all the clusters of sweat and dirt of a vessel oils in hot summer nights, all the tragedies of forests fires, drought, burned energy, sealed sources: she soaked forcefully all the channels and sources and brought a new reincarnation of the whole hemisphere, in the summer of 2017, Croatia. I was sitting and thinking about Niki, and about the rain, and we lived beneath the old dirty roof of an old rotten house and we slept in tatters and ate ugly food and fought for every breath and I was thinking and she was sleeping and I woke her up: "My love, my love, it's raining!", and she smiled and she kissed me but I saw that she didn't trully understand me because she's so young, because she didn't...
She didn't sit under the eaves on a city streets and childishly and mysticly watched her own spirit and people passing by, wet, rushing, and she didn't get them and events and things, and didn't carry the burdon of an everyday battle on a markets, city squares, coins, emotions of a deep history of people and culture and fear to become crazy and fear to not become crazy, to be regular, normal human being and I am in this fight since ever, it's my duality and my curse. I want to be normal, casual, smiling, funy guy but everyone starts to rebel about me because probably unconciouslly demons and ghosts of edgy shapes come out of me, and several uncontroled magical energies and like I am a portal for all different times and people my body recives some scary dusty voices and movements and people are afraid of me like I am some weird melted siluette of their deepest subconciousness and simply they hate to accept this unreal unnecessary crazy game, so they want to get rid of me stupid as they are usin the most drastic, most childish ways and I accept that challenge over and over again trying to regenerate with retreats and getting my trust back again, with calmness, with refueling of the simple constructive everyday human values and strenghts, and I do, I really do, everytime, especially when I get the prices like this one, after a long long, very long time, alone again, comfortable, the very price that all the crazy novelists and poets get from time to time after a long rambling and silly relationships and big loves and affairs, and tragical mystics of our beautifull everyday handsome universe. I was sitting and thinking about this, and how Niki doesn't know the rain, and with it she doesn't know me then, but I didn't worry; from the first day we met I knew we were meant for each other, and I never trully doubted it, despite all the troubles and problems we created together, with our poor, often drunk, inexperienced behaviour, and I fell back into her young energetic mistakes and she went further to my stubborn boring old mans misterious silences and feels of a hidden meanings, metaphysics of existance in a naked skin of a body under the Sun. We lived under that rotten roof, hot as hell, spiked by the insects, in dust, terrified with the horror of being poor, back pains, hands pains, but with such a non resistable smile that the very Angels softed over our spiritual beauty.
