събота, 1 септември 2012 г.

Godsmack "Releasing The Demons"

Change.
Change is amongst the most difficult of tasks.
Gathering all the bits and pieces of yourself, all the faces, all the masks...
Trying to throw away the bad parts and then clumping the rest into a huge Golem.
Meant to be stronger.
Meant to be smarter.
Meant to be better.

But do you know what's more difficult?
Reversing the change, when you figure out you haven't done it right.

I remember suffocating inside that stone chest.
I remember the voices of your former selves: screaming, shouting, cursing, weeping, howling, moaning...
Banging on the walls of that walking prison you built for them.

I remember... It took you weeks. WEEKS.
To realise, that this change is wrong. That you are slowly turning into stone.
Stagnant.
Suffocating yourself.

And then...

Change.
Change back.
The most difficult of all changes.
Sitting down, staring at ourselves...
Painfully, slowly, tearing the Golem to pieces with your own bare hands...
Just because you found out, that the demons you tried to lock away...
Are the only thing which keeps you living.

събота, 31 март 2012 г.

Smallman "Labyrinth Of Present"

2 AM.
May.
Some would say the end of spring. Some would call it the beginning of summer.
Whatever. It's a warm night. Much warmer than I remember it.

I was sitting in a 24/7 neighbourhood cafe, which was trying to seem higher-classed than it really was.
The prices were according to what it thought it was, not what it really was, too.
I was waiting for my pint of coffee to cool down enough, so I can start drinking.
Yes. Pint. It was a pint-of-coffee night.

The moment They walked through the door, I knew She'd made her choice.
I knew what we would be discussing.
They kept a short distance between them.
They didn't touch, didn't even look at each other.

They sat down.

I took a sip from my coffee.

I could see them. I could see them together, ten years from now.
I could see Her in the wedding dress I wanted to buy for her.
I could see him in the white suit I wanted to wear.

I could see a little girl, frolicking around.
As pretty as her mother, and with the unruly small curls of her father.
She smiled at me, winked, and then went off to play with some intoxicated patron's phone.

A vision.

We were civilised.
No one screamed. No one shouted.
No one said bad words.
I let You take over, after all.
You've always been good at handling these things.

A pint of coffee and an hour later we were sitting in His car, on our way to The Seeker.
I was wrong. It was a two-pints-of-coffee-and-two-packets-of-cigarettes night.
We said our good-byes.
We wished her happiness.
We were sincere - both you and I.

The Seeker poured us a glass of ouzo and a cup of coffee.
After you told him, as brief as possible, what had happened, we didn't discuss it any more.
There was no need.
Facts are facts.
He knew that, and he's always been good at jingling shiny keys in front of your eyes, so that I can sit down and think.
So I can scream my lungs out and not bother you. Not bother us.

We were adrift on the river of time, rapidly going forward. Always forward.
We decided we should finally craft ourselves a fucking rudder.
We decided we need more coffee.
And that ouzo can taste bearable after all.
It was a two-pints-of-coffee night.
And a go-and-do-your-job morning.

And life went on.

събота, 17 март 2012 г.

Oren Lavie "Her morning elegance"

We slowly open our eyes.
It feels like the weight of the night is still hanging on our eyelids.
Heavy.
Sluggish.
Brutal.

Slowly, with a lot of effort, we roll 180 degrees.
Every part of our body creaks.
Rust begins to fall off our joints and our whole systems feels like someone just wound the springs of a clockwork mechanism so ancient, it should have fossilized by now.

We focus our gaze.
Her hair is messy.
She's rolled herself up like a cocoon.
She looks at us softly.
She smiles.

Her smile.
Pure sunlight.
Burning the mares off of me.
Bathing me in warmth.
Polishing my cogs and gears.
Tightening the springs.

We smile back.
It's a perfect morning.

сряда, 1 февруари 2012 г.

She Wants Revenge "Must Be The One"

The race has been on for a few weeks now.
I'd laced my foot in lead and slammed it on the gas as hard as I can, keeping it there. Letting it go numb. Never thinking I'd have to stop.
***
She sits down at the table across form us.
***
I can see the finish line. A brick wall, barring my way to the second lap. I'm going to break through. I shift gears.
***
She reaches into her bag.
She takes out an object and places it on the table.
The symbol of "Us".
***
The other driver pushes me off the road at the sharp turn.
My steering fails, my breaks start leaking, my foot's still firmly placed on the pedal.
I crash into the security wall in a giant ball of flames, smoke, melting tires, and twisted metal.
She wins this race.
But there will be a second one.
---
Within an hour I'm back behind the wheel.
Another race.
A race I can win.
***
"I know you still think of her. Stop lying."
"I'm not."
"You want her more than you want me."
"I didn't. But you've made me believe it."
***
I forfeit that race.
The other driver never stood a chance.
I'm a spitfire. I deserve a better race, a bigger challenge.
THAT race, where I crashed and burned.
I've seen THAT driver at pit-stops on the highway.
We talked about a rematch a couple of times.
***
We still met from time to time. A hug here, a kiss there. So what if she was with another for a while. I didn't care. Much.
***
Time passes.
Days pass by like milestones in the countryside.
And we get to our rematch.
I'll be lightning.
This time I'll win.
***
There She is - a vision of innocence, holding a single white rose she chose for me.
Knowing She's late. Hoping for a second chance.
Too late.
***
The race is on. Our engines roaring like beasts from the depths of hell.
We're close.
Every time I look at my rear view mirror, She's come closer.
I can see the wall at the finish line.
We're close. So close.
And there's that same sharp turn again.
She catches up to me then.
Only this time I'm on the inside.
And this time I push her off the road.
***
The rose sits there, on the white bench.
I rise.
I walk away.
I reach for my phone and dial a number.
***
A short phone call, and the next race is set.
It's going to be wild.
This time I'll break through the finish line.
I'm just a crash test dummy in a prototype "Diablo Rojo".
Pick up the pieces, and put my foot on the pedal.
I'll race on.
I'll break the wall.
I'll have a second lap.