It's okay.

It's okay. Don't worry. It's alright to be angry. To feel sad, lost, unhappy, misunderstood, helpless.
You don't need to change it. Stay in it. Don't smile. Stay tensed. Get even angrier. Get furious. Want to smash something. Want to hurt someone. Want to shout so loud that everyone would hear. Look at you. Ask why does it have to happen to you. Ask. Look up and ask. Whom are you asking? Yourself? But you don't know the answer... do you? But you just feel the pain. So cry. Cry. Be weak. Let them think you're a loser. Let them think they won. Let them win. Let yourself lose. Give up. And cry. And cry...

Now look around.

A dread for own greatness as a projection of the dread for the greatness of the universe.

What a runaway wildness,

as if sex-drugs-rock 'n' roll, live-fast-die-young and stuff like that….. and on the contrary it aroused a certain strength from within to be -- on the outside -- just like that, no-matter-what-kind-of, lousy, clumsy, any, while inside surrender into the depth of horror when you give up a narcotic…….

and to dissolve in the stream of energy, no matter how strong it was without a need to ground, because you don't give a damn

if the outer space will suck you in, so let it be

As desperately as you can throw yourself into a drunk oblivion or a narcotic euphoria you can plunge into the ocean of conciseness and all the truth that scares you……

because that's how narcotic leads you out of mind borders

and that's how passionately you want to jump there

get out of the borders at last

without a fear of what it can do to you

this was the beauty of rock stars who were drinking and destroying themselves.

But consciousness scares more then any narcotic and allures stronger because its effect doesn't go

drowned in it once, you can never come back again.

this is the dread of what you are capable of.

Live it like you mean it.

I have a desire. A desire to make an artwork out of my own life. It lives in me always since my very early childhood. It’s like a fever, a real inspiration. Still I never know which brush or which color to use. I try all of them: writing, painting, filming. But it doesn’t work the way I want it to, so I get frustrated. And then I start to realize, what if the life itself should be the way of an expression. You know, we live in this weird time when new kinds of art appear every day because of technical progress and - well – evolution. What if it’s time to officially start a new kind of art. Life. Could be a real conceptual underground! Think about it.

You wouldn’t have to do anything but live. Everything you do would be a part of the picture you’re presenting to the world. You yourself would be an artwork and all the people around you would be an audience. All of them. Family and friends, lovers and enemies, people on the subway and in the street. Well, actually God is the audience too if you believe in it. No rules except if you want them. Just a free creation. Art can be beautiful or tragic, funny or provocative - you’re the boss, it’s your call. Seems easy. But… then you’d need to live it like you mean it! You couldn’t say, I’ll write this book/finish this job/get a rest then live. You’d have to do all these things and your living at the same time, every single moment, passionately like a film director on the set. To live your life… doesn’t look so easy now, does it?

But I say do it. You’re already doing it after all.

And as for me, I think I’m gonna stick with this for now. I can still write and film of course… but only as long as I remember that cleaning at home and watching carefully a fly on the wall is as much important and artful as any other great deed. 

Stories begin with titles.

Wind on a chapiter.

Why do you love wind so much???

Is it because a minute ago he strolled in the stratosphere where no human have ever breathed, and now you are sitting on the marble stairs of this gorgeous building with columns and pilasters, seeing the very same wind rustling right over your head where the chapiters are. Yes, here in the town where you live. He’s whispering something to a stone flower up above the column crown, and you wonder what. So you say:

   - Hey, wind!

He’ll come down to you just for a sec! To stroke your hair and then fly away into the unknown, leaving you slightly blank as he swept out all your old thoughts making a room for new ones. And you stand up there so small, looking into the sky, wishing you could fly.

Why do you hate wind so much???

Is it because he messes up the papers on your table? Is it because he makes people unpredictable ones he gets into their mind and you never know what’s on it? Well, sometimes the wind hates himself too. That’s right, there are moments when he despairs and gets angry with his instability and admires anything that can live longer than two moments.  And the most he admires stones, rocks, earth. He wishes he could be so wise, so graceful, had peace like they have. And then flying over the city he gets a little quieter and slips under some old roof to kiss a marble curl of beautiful statue’s hair.

So wind loves stones. And stones love wind. And not only chapiter stones but also the stones of pavement, the stones of skyscrapers and of ancient ruins, Alpine peaks and Carpathian paths.

And the story I’m going to tell you is about us living between them, appearing confused witnesses of this love.