Blue Is the Warmest Color

I know what they say. That shooting those scenes was humiliating and gruelling for the actresses. That  the director is a madman.

But it’s a masterpiece to me.

Feels llike I’ve been where Adèle’s been. When she’s excluded by her age group members. When she’s sitting with Emma on the park bench in the afternoon sunlight, excited and shy at the same time. When she's told that she evokes endless tenderness, but cannot be loved – I understand this. I feel this. I can still recall this.

I’m only dreaming about one additional story. I know how Adèle felt about Emma. Cause some time ago I experienced my Emma too. But I would like to know, for once, how Emma felt about Adèle. If it was real. Could it last. What could make it happen.

I texted my Mom that this movie is a must for her. Initially, I wanted to add that Adèle is me, but then I figured she might think I’m bisexual and I don’t want her to settle with the compromise option. Perhaps after the eight-minute sex scene she might finally work it out.

blocks of ice

New Year has the colors of a Scandinavian detective movie: massive block built back in the 50s under the pale gray sky, empty windows, silence. I can’t hear the gulls scream through the closed windows. Yesterday when I woke up at 6 am, the fog was so thick that all I could see was the bright head of the street lamp. And then later at night, while I was drinking cider I could hear a dog whimpering with fear of fireworks. Now the soft white bodies that have flown from the river are circling peacefully between the blocks. The war is over now. The most solitary night of year is over.

spiral

I'm 25, I have 3 gray hairs and a job that I hate.
My last lover was a junkie, my friends have left to live abroad, my dreams are so unrealistic, that I don't even summon them in the daylight.
Yesterday, my mother embraced me and it felt like being born again. Her never-ending life force pushes me forwards each time a circle closes in a dark point.

I admire

I admire artists.

to love their art is to live an esthetically pleasing and interesting life of somebody else - not mine.

recently, so many have left the country to live somewhere else. and I grow indifferent to those who have stayed.

the past is in my dreams at night, I thought I saw the past on the stairs near the railway station, she was walking with her head down, so I'm not sure if it was her.

on the photographs, the past is bright and warm. seems so unreal from today's perspective.

forgive me everything I have done wrong, forgive me I have become someone detached from life, frozen, absent. defeated.

forgive me, because I can't forgive myself.





I loved you.

this has made me so happy

https://itunes.apple.com/ru/album/someday/id737714252

light grey and orange.

home. ginger, lemon, honey. pumpkin soup. two cats.
feels like I'm leaving some kind of nightmare for the weekend to get back to the place that remembers me as a young young girl who wrote, read and satisfied her natural urge to explore.

how come doing the right thing, as it seemed, has lead me to the life of constant struggle for survival. for sanity.

no anesthesia, pls.

If the fact that I dated a girl unable to love anybody back, an ex-prisoner, a junkie or a sociopath, wasn't a sufficient proof of my masochism, nobody should have any doubts now that I have a crush on my dentist.