Nastya Fall
© Nastya Fall, 2024
ISBN 978-5-0062-2108-6
Created with Ridero smart publishing system
FOREWORD
Sunday hindsight diaries is what you write when nostalgia makes it difficult to sit still, buzzing under your skin like an enormous beehive. It’s in the first sunny days of spring, when the heat is luring you out, to the tight buds and puddles and dogs. It’s in the fields, moving like tv static, ready to tell you the stories of those who came before. It’s in the falling leaves, layering up in empty alleyways, umbrellas and knitted scarves. It’s in the first days of winter, when snow is all around the city. It’s fresh and crystal clear, it stings with pain, but you can’t wait for it to come around. Those subtle flashbacks are different with every season and that’s what makes them so interesting and exciting. Those memories will never change and you’ll keep seeing the same faces under the glowing street lights at night. What you’ve written at 16 will remain what you’ve written at 16. And at 20 you will be jealous of her sweet teenage nonchalance, healing the wounds of hopeful blindness on your heart. Your past isn’t going anywhere, a good reason to overanalyze it. And even a better way to see just how far you’ve already come. One day you will wake up to being flooded with regret and sorrow. The other – to a rush of affection and love. Every emotion is falling into place so gracefully, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. And those are the things you will write about in Sunday hindsight diaries.
THE SERENDIPITY CHAPTER
jane eyre
a dull, murky evening
and the western wind
is shaking the fir tree branches.
your shoulders you’re wrapping,
no sun – only candles,
a lantern light that is tarnished.
the cold of the manor,
the foretoken’s banner
clenches my shivering chest.
who’s wandering by night?
what’s happening here right?
is here where my path is best?
27.02.2019
***
never-the-loneliness,
nevertheless.
i can still see myself in that white dress,
sun in the mirrors with rainbows in sand,
silently telling me it will not end.
blueprints of sky on my permanent walls,
milk-dipped silk edges of cloudy crème rose,
roughness and tightness of arms around me,
silently telling i’ll never be free.
counting the hours and reading the lips,
fighting your demons with my false beliefs,
perching the window to see that, out there
no one can actually understand? care?
salty in solitude, waves crawl aside.
going away, you think i wouldn’t mind
stopping you? leaving you? living alone?
isn’t it late to return what i own?
coastline is softened by dimmed lilac haze,
all through my head – your indifferent gaze.
resting my soul in the sea – i’m a mess.
never-the-loneliness,
nevertheless.
22.06.2020
***
in the memory of jim morrison, the lead singer of the doors
he hypnotised crowds with a flick of the wrist,
created the art just by moving his lips.
and, vividly dreaming, he poured out his song
to tremble, to hope and to whisper along.
his infinite star shone above from the stage,
he wasn’t afraid of appearing strange.
though somebody claimed of him being moonstruck,
it wasn’t in his style to give it a fuck.
he was like a lightning. a flash – and he’s gone.
a seeker, a poet, who rode on the storm.
and history doesn’t forget all the vows
of beads, lizard kings and soft tambourine sounds.
and through the nightshades of paris
a caravan carried the pain.
he closed the doors of perception
behind him when he went away.
08.08.2020
***
in honour of the 41st anniversary of
«the wall» by pink floyd
deserted bedrooms. a silent hall.
darkness. short beeps. a telephone call.
now it is you who is always not home.
you’re mourning. you’re weeping
behind the wall.
you’re crawling and creeping through fears and tears.
you’re bleeding, receding; the blood you smear
on bricks will deliver your dream to those,
who’ll stand on the ruins of virgin walls.
you shiver and quiver from deadly cold.
the crumbs you are picking once made up your world.
your past on the left, your thoughts on the right.
from hell – to heaven, from darkness – to light.
you nourish your pain with a rapture of mad.
because every coat, every line, brick – it had
a story, so pure in its manic dismay.
too frightened to leave and too tired to stay.
you take a deep breath and look over your life:
your father, your mother, your band and your wife.
now it doesn’t matter, cause you are alone.
and fortune is telling you:
«bring down the wall!»
to kill all you love is most frequently
the only known way to be free.
30.11.2020
***
come right to me, relieve my pain, don’t let me go.
refine my shrine and watch it burn, in sorrow known.
humiliate, humidify, relapsing «why?»,
retire tears, collect your things and leave behind.
heal up my soul, demolish yours, we are aware:
you never ask, i never tell that i still care.
your tender step i will confirm beside my door.
my sunshine, please