Vacuum...

...when you have to do too many things at once and as a result you fail every single one.

Change of plans.

Old, sad days pass away. As winter comes, everything wakes up to life, to new life, to a better life. New questions appear but why do they seem to be like the old ones?


I think about my future and the people which are possibly important for me.
It turnes out that peolpe also think about he others. But are they able to make sacrifices for them? To what extent, where is that border, is a friend the one who will do anything for you?

I just haven't met you yet.

It's like after very very long long winter, a thaw comes at last.
Can't you believe it? Why did it happen? Anyway, you'll never know, until you ask.
You need to know.
You need to understand.
Why?
You no longer have an excuse to wipe, to be sad and to put on weigh. So you just take a chance and try to be happy. It also gives satisfaction.



If you were struck by a magic message, what should you do? If you knew that magic exists, and the message can solve all your so-called problems. If you were sure that it can change your life. If you...

...were me.

To Travel. To Live.

I love travelling all alone. Drinking yoghurt in buses, sleeping with my head on my shoulder, not be able to read because of the poor light.
Finding all that magic places other people have no idea of. Taking photos of clichés and pretending they are masterpieces. After a month you get bored of them anyway.


Writing poems which are never to be finished.
Writing stories which are never to be read again.
Thinking a people when there is no chance of them thinking about me.

Being happily unhappy.

The Dead Monroe Face

The songs are great inspiration. They can make you feel sad, they can make you cry. They can make an artist from you. They can tell you who you wanna be and how you'd like to live. They're your guide through live and tell you what to do.

That's why people always write in a "hobby" box: music.

I Thought I Saw Your Face Today

Seine and its people.
People of Paris, People of France.
You can easily recognize them as they pass by you, hurrying, not admiring the unique atmosphere of the city.
They are always crossing the street on the red light, they are always pushing you in metro queues.
They have headphones on their ears, because they don't want to hear you.
They run and they don't admit that they sleep at night.
They work hard. They really do work hard. You won't see them never again. They are gone so easily.
Too easily.

Being a parent. Being a child.

Today I was travelling by means of public transport. On the bus stop two people were to get off: a men and a child. The boy was perhaps 3 years old - he was so small and fragile that he could hardly go down the steps from bus to the pavement. But his father held boy's hand, and the child managed to get off the bus by himself.

I wondered. If it was a mother she would probably take the child on her arms.



These are the photos from Paris. I liked looking on the families, thinking how their relations are, who are they, what they do. They often were so similar, but in a different sense - so distinct.
I have always wanted to have beautiful photos as a child. To be honest, I considered myself as an ugly child. I imagined that I will have a huge problem in the future - when I'll become a famous star (no, it didn't matter that I cannot sing or whatever) I will have to show in TV how I looked like x years ago. I had nightmares about it! That's why I often wonder what these kids think about themselves. Kids always think. We shouldn't forget it. Nor ignore it.

Impressed?

I am. Definitely. I saw the Paris collection of impressionists' paintings in the Museum D'Orsay.



Now I can die.

Pont des Arts ou... Amour?

Trip to Paris unexpectedly turned out to inspire. To motivate. To fill my head with stupidities, love and lonley walks by the Seine.



Why?

She keeps Moët and Chandon in her pretty cabinet

Combination of all-time favourite characters? Possible. Monet. Freddie Mercury. The cabinet of my inspirations and all that garbage I produce in pursue of realizing some psychodelic and unreal visions. Or mild, cliche landscapes, why not?


Claude Monet, Le déjeuner sur l'herbe