Interview with God but only interviewer speaks

You see, I’d love to but I can’t keep my thoughts straight

But I’ll try anyway

I am in a coma

A coma that has lasted for 18 years

A coma of sadness and unrealistic expectations and endless stubborness

I get inspired easily

I take what I can get

If I did all the things I wanted to do I’d be accomplished by now

And by accomplished I mean torn apart

Even this was inspired

Even this was something I took from someone else (you)  because I have nothing left of my own

I refuse to “make peace” with the reality

I live with this silly, childish notion in my head that everything is going to be okay if I want it to

I live with this childish philosophy because children never fail and I dont wanna fail

I am scared of failure

I am scared of being mediocre

I have this urge to be the greatest version of myself I can be

But i cant do that

I could if I were alone constantly

But im always surrounded

If I were alone constantly i’d like it better

Because my mind does cartwheels whenever i’m with people

I dont understand how people make friends so easily

But I understand their friends better than they do

Yesterday i was sitting outside on a bench overlooking a watery vain of the city that I live in

I thought i was dreaming

I always think im dreaming

I thought i was in a movie

I always think I am in a movie

Probably thats why everyone thinks im insane

Except for the people that should be thinking im insane

I dont wanna stay here

If I do I know exactly what would happen

I would imprison myself in this white box and never get out

I’d rather be sad on another continent

Why is it so goddam hard to aknowledge me

I have some things that make me desirable?

Dont I?

I probably dont

I never want children

I am not a romantic but I have my wedding dress picked out

Not because I like weddings but because I like dresses

I write

I film and talk over it

I believe in true love

Just like you, If I love, I love deeply

Thats a nice quality, kid, I promise you

I am mad

Absolutely, terrifingly, scarily mad

“Che pazza” italians would say

I like that

I love italian

Food culture people language

I wish I liked my own language

I’m sick of losing soulmates

I’m probably the faulty one you returned back

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Disposable Dreams 0.2

  2211

“…but that’s just how life is”, she said,

“You are tied to thousands and thousands of weightless balloons aimed at the sky and sometimes one pops, your heart does a little dance, you think you’re about to fall but in the end it’s just one balloon and you keep on reaching the sky. “

 

 

A horrendous story of Gatsby and Anxiety

There I was, soaking myself in bubbly water, reading Gatsby and thinking about this thing growing inside my head that I hated.

I don’t know what is it about Fitzgerald that made me want to drown in that goddam bathtub or why it made me remember or why I’m deciding to tell this horrendous story with untasteful humor… as with most things in my life, I just don’t know.

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Continue reading “A horrendous story of Gatsby and Anxiety”

Moscow with Mom

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 I’ve always wanted to visit Moscow. I’ve heard a lot from grandparents raised in the walls of Soviet Union about the great cultural heritage that lies in the streets of the city. This summer I got to visit and pretend to be a cool Russian kid dressed up in Gosha Rubchinskiy. 

    I’m a sucker for nostalgia; I feed off of it. So walking around in a trench coat listening to mellow tunes while my hometown was burning from heat was a nice breather. I got to listen to my mom’s childhood stories about summers spent in the city with my grandparents. It’s a shame I didn’t get to experience it first-hand. 

  It’s hard to describe the city itself. You know how New York is overwhelmingly hectic? Well, Moscow is the opposite. It’s underwhelming… in a good way, if that makes any sense. It seems like the city is constantly mourning and everyone is always sad. It can be the dull weather or the Soviet influenced stone-cold architecture, but either way it’s weirdly comforting. It’s cold and it’s warm; it’s gigantic but you don’t feel lost; it’s a constructed contradiction just like myself and I like it a lot. 
Continue reading “Moscow with Mom”

“Tolerable Letters to my Tolerable Friends or not-so”

(1 of 1)The more I think about it, the more I realize, I barely write about experiences. Or rather, I do but they are more of incidents that happy-ending stories. I write about people, and encounters with them; I write about valued humans and relationships. I’ve always found them intriguing.

I think, the less of the special ones you have in life, the more you worry about losing them and the constant notion of people leaving never disappears. More importantly, being scared of actually telling loved ones that I’m afraid of losing them is the illness I have. Because that makes me vulnerable. And people never like vulnerable. I guess I like being liked by people.

Continue reading ““Tolerable Letters to my Tolerable Friends or not-so””

tell me the stories

collage.jpgYes, I want to hear it from you, I do. I want to hear it from you now, because I never got to do it when I was supposed to.

I want to hear how you fell, like I did. I want to hear how you struggled and how your body crippled at the mention of my name. I want to hear how your heart finally got there; how you jumped out of a taxi cab out of a sudden realization, like I did. I want to hear why you hesitated. I want to hear why you took those steps. I want to hear every single reasoning behind your hidden, mysterious episodes. I want to hear about the occurrences in your brain I never got to experience and I want to hear why I never got to experience them. I want to hear it. All of it. From you.

And I want to know how many of us are there who didn’t get to hear.

 

 

         featuring some images I found on tumblr