Chronicles of the Black Angel. Part I: Hero of Mistaken Day.

The days were changing one after another, by the smooth way, by the overall imposed opinion. Tuesday after Monday, second after first, February after January… The thirty second day fell out of the total charger, and nobody caught sight of it… Just an invisible hand trembled, shaking out the aim, and, vexed with the mistake, fired again the usual burst to the sky. Wednesday after Tuesday, third after second, March after February…

And he was born on this day. On the sixty first minute of the twenty fifth hour this world heard his first cry, that like a clear song forced its way through the shroud of grey mediocre weekday. Broke the pane of glass, in a drop of light sparkled on the splinter and rushed upwards like a colorful rainbow …
He was the hero of this day: he came to this devilishly logical, but, nevertheless, strange world, that has stiffened in astonishment under the phantasmagoric sight of his unreal steel-blue eyes; he – Human.
And he wanted to live. Just to feel alive. He himself and the rest of the world. The world he was brought in by the thirty second day of the month…

But why ever all is so queasily logical?!.. Why it can’t be the eighth day of the week, or thirteenth month?! Just with a single cold phrase – It Can’t Be – the Lords of the World have aborted that suddenly appeared day with its mysteries and heroes… His powerful rainbow of life on the wing crashed to an iron wall of unreality and drowned in everlasting futility… And the sixty second minute forever devoured the last echo of his first cry …
The day was dead. Celestial chancellery just stroke it out of the total list as not wanted. The thirty second day…

And he was born on this day. Or has he ever been born?..

Thick darkness of insomnia

Torn and tangible clots of darkness are heavily flowing outside the dead windows of a sleeping city. Endless road, ghostly changing its direction with every turn of a wheel. Full moon madness rushes upon me, and I don't really know (and actually don't care) how to fight it. That perfectly round, gleaming face, hanged there in the sky over my head, shamelessly stares at my backseat, where I'm killing another half of an hour on the way home.
Driving there, still I don't really know if I want to go there. To invade that sleeping block of rooms, where everything is extremely silent, where I feel lost only because of miserable noise I make there deafens me. But where can I go in the middle of the night.

Surrounding darkness is endlessly poetic. I mention that I don't concentrate anymore on what is moving outside the windows. Only this road in front of me, fastly and inevitably disappearing under the wheels...

Deviant

Here we are, standing on a pavement,
on the sidewalk of the world, breaking the laws of this society.
Laws to be indifferent, ignorant and selfish.

The rule "I don't care" doesn't work anymore.
I care. I'm here. I dare...

Quicksilver Heavens

It never comes when you wait for that. It's impossible to predict that kind of mood, which overwhelms you since the very first seconds of its birth. But it's waiting for you, hiding in every phosphoric drop of liquid, in every thin shadow, and it knows when it's time to strike. It puts refracting prisms between you and your visions, dissolves your minutes in silence - but it is something that makes you breathe. It's just like an occasionally stranging balloon in the quicksilver heavens. It is silent, but watching this, still there's so much to say...

Desolation

When ghostly smoke is drawing webs under the ceiling, when every sound is growing in my brain like an accelerated cancer, leaving me deaf and desperate, when motley thoughts are jumping from one point to another, and all the memories seem blurred - I only want to spit another clot of smoke out, and to leave this heartless neverland. But everytime I close my eyes - to get rid of the oppressive visionaires - they come to life furthermore... It's hard to be alive in the galleries of death, with beating human hearts impaled on blood-rusted thorns, where the spirit of Inquisition is so real, that every manifestation of genius is convicted to be infernal...

And the most horrifying in this all is that the gallery exists nowhere, but inside of myself.