***

MIss my old apartment on the 14th Avenue, the attic in Sofia, all the places I have inhabited, exscribed my soul onto, then abandoned in order to move on, to exist. They inhabit me now, inscribed into memory, deeply forgotten, forever remembered, lost dwellings, cluttered in the house of memory as orphaned children in a motherless home.

***

Memories are corpses of things.

Hostages of Winter

We’ve been craving for you, Spring,
As the forgotten long for the return
Of their long-lost lovers,
As a frozen boy waited,
Once upon a time
For his girlfriend’s tears
To melt the icy dungeons of
Winter.

Goodbye, Snow Queen.
So long, Winter.
“Rulers make bad lovers” –
As Stevie Nicks used to sing.
It’s over between us.
It’s over.

Here and There

Started dreaming again after a long, long dry dream spell. Where do we go at night, in our sleep? It doesn’t matter, as long as it is somewhere else, not here, not here. We need to roam through this dreamscape of ours in order to return to reality, to enter wakefulness as a warm, longed for home.

The idea of “home” can not exist outside the dichotomies “here and there”, “inside and outside”. Outside the notion of  “inside-outside” there is no outside, there is no inside, there is only a place which isn’t there. A paradox. An empty signifier. A signifier without a signified. A “no-where”. A “no-place”. In other words - placelessness, “u-topia”*. A total and unthinkable abstraction, complete abolition of reality. 

Without dreams, confined to this permanent home of a “here” without a “there”, I am homeless - drifting into the unreality of non-existence.

I am, because from the “there” of the dream I can dream that I am not here.

***

Fade to Black

***

Life is a deep sleep of which love is the dream.


Alfred De Musset

Long Nights

‎"Who I was before I cannot recall"