mixer

Things got completely mixed up to me.
That woman and an irresistible picture of blue water when I think of her.
My little everyday victories I won within last few weeks. (I did go shopping, did get my blood examined, and I managed not to run amok in a crowded streetcar.)
Travelling to Jana by a Jungheinrich forklift truck in Zelenka's "Příběhy obyčejného šílenství" movie.
The songs by Tracy Chapman.
A strange daydream of a hovel-flat with greenery, wood and a play of light inside. A shelter.
And then the Friday night with M., though I'm not sure whether it really happened.
My always-almost-exploding-sinuses.
A bottle of disgusting wine bought at Biedronka.
My cold lips.
The surface is stirred up.
Two articles right text to each other in a newspaper: one about a hundred of Tibetans murdered by the Chinese – and the other one about a study which revealed that the butterflies remember their caterpillar experiences.
All mixed up. I feel sick. It's like a carousel. Faster and faster.
Once I dreamt of May and a warm afternoon on a wooden bench in some good, calm place.
But faster and faster, till I'm in my bed. Then goes the alarm clock at seven past six in the morning and it starts all over again.

I'll slug anyone who says everything's gonna be alright.
Anyone who reminds me I should make things right by myself will be slugged as well.

On Friday I watched with M. her shots from Greece. When I saw my smiling face (the White Tower in the background), I said I thought it weird that there'd been a time in my life when I was happy. Then M. reminded me: "you weren't really happy; you were just glad for a little while because we finally found this goddamn tower".
(Which was not a reproach.)