A Peculiar Sense Of Style

I see myself only when I see how different I could have been,
how the entire world is a nameless stranger and only then (!) I can enjoy its wonder
its circus, its brightness, its age, why is the day so bright and why that fills me with hope;
why is there (pointing at my forehead) that hope if I am not a Sun worshipper –
maybe a reflex from my ancestors or another self-made illusion to keep me occupied
with surviving and I am not yet as old as the world. not yet.

are you ready to ornate my reality with your own shadows? I am ready to taste your hope. orange.
your hope taste like orange. the rounded fruits were taken from a sunny beach where people go on holiday. yes, I should go there on honeymoon to make my bride smile.
they taste like freedom. but the summer is gone with the fruits at the end of your art.

are you going to descent into the abyss to bring out Cerberus? to look at the shapes of the shadows
you see down in the cave, moving on the walls fast enough to make you tremble?
are you going to paint those shapes on a sheet of paper and make me tremble, too?
are you going to slay the dragon after that?

are you going to make me love you like I love my sweet mother in every woman? you could sing.
but not like you do it, but like my mother shouts. sing with your mouth wide open to remind me of her.
or you could growl, making me believe that you are more than a rocker, you are a demon.
you are the Devil.

style could be your mistake. ornate the average with your mistakes. my average face predicts nothing.
my face is blank and my mother said that it is beautiful because it has nothing personal on it.
make me the butterfly for which every light bulb is the moon, every hip is my mother's.
should I feel ashamed for that?
do the mountains resemble anything? that must be God's style, they say. but does Gauguin
look like anything you have ever seen? so he must be a god, too.
what does kindness resemble? I can fall in love with it, too. and it has no shape or mother.

are you going to paint a horseman in red?
maybe I will be a soldier and I will see myself again.
Could have been a poet.
I could not find the shadow of a man in the abyss like the shadow of Cerberus, something to kill.
who is the enemy? my ancestors left no such shadow inside my mind. I love even the nameless stranger.
who is the enemy? I do not fear mushrooms. should I?
is the war over the border going to ornate my blank reality
with the blood of the innocents? I can hear the bombings from here.
is the war from Ukraine coming here, too? you can wonder...
if yes, then nothing I have just said about the wonders of the mind matters.
then the brain is not a wonder. it is just meat. on the walls. no illusion.