Emotional Orgasm

  • I haven’t been writing for quite a while now, – I confess; and you reply promptly asking: why?

I linger for a minute in doubt: should, or shouldn’t I answer, and then declare: because words can no longer find the way back to me. After we both sit in silence, because between us all is answered, all is clear.

  • Maybe this is the case between literature and me? Maybe all is answered? – I ask you searching for tobacco.
  • Doubt it, – you don’t brag.
  • I can no longer write about rela/… – I keck impulsively, – /…tionships, only from a thought of it my body goes numb, my stomach feels sick and all I ever eaten comes back, leaving a revolting taste in my mouth.
  • Why is that? – sometimes it feels like you’re not listening, only intervene stimulating my emotional clitoris until I reach the climax.
  • Why? – I repeat, somewhat trying to assimilate with the question, in order to avoid a sham response. Even though I justified it a thousand times before in my head, even though I mentioned it a dozen times in random conversations.

I say nothing and you stay silent too. I smile. You ask for a bill.

  • This is exactly why! – I state and motion my hand like a conductor closing a piece.
  • Pardon? – you give me a puzzled look.
  • Why did you ask for a bill? I still have some wine left.
  • I thought we are leaving.
  • Someone should definitely write a book about the primitively of men…
  • /… it would be more like a booklet of two to three pages.
  • Exactly, – I nod in agreement.

I invested enough effort analysing female and male relation, also male and male relation, as well as female plus female and all cases were more or less the same: if it is not going to be you, there will be somebody else. Men are still in domination, because women (still) find it hard to separate from emotion. Right atmosphere, right timing, a couple of (untruthful) confessions and they can not help but wonder how the future together would look like. Sometimes it’s enough to slip in a trickily question or rather a hint, something like: so there is no chance of us taking a bath together? And you just leave it right there. Somewhere amongst all the planning the feeling that this probably will not work out hits in, but hope is a tight little black dress of the twenty first century. Once you figure this entire relationships thing out in addition to the overall knowledge that you are not immortal – the being becomes rather eerie and all looks vacuous. Online dating, pornography and loneliness all what’s left there for you to enjoy. A black hole opens up inside and you are craze trying to fill it in stuffing your-self with junk, smoking away, popping tablets, fucking your brains out, consuming waste, looking for at least a tiny thrill taking on extreme sport, looking for God in places… He no longer exists. Too much noise. Too much information. Too many desires. Too much choice. Too much freedom.

  • Here you go, – a waiter with Cindy Crawford mole above his upper lip breaks off the chain of thoughts.

You stretch out a fifty pounds note and without waiting for a change head straight to a cloakroom. While you’re away Cindy takes my hand turns the palm up and tattoos his phone number on my wrist. I smile at him, the way I smiled at you, just a couple of minutes ago. If you learn to separate emotions, you’re left with a body; a temporary beautiful thing that everyone desires to posses. There are plenty of fine things around and they all are easily accessible. Everyone needs to be relished; everyone needs to regain their slipping self-esteem. Mass production. Romance is dead. There is no space for romance. We’re too busy creating ideal profiles to please everyone, to make them like us.

  • Sometimes I do miss a human, – I open up sliding my hands into coat pockets, – Look around, it looks like everyone is posing for a selfie.

And sometimes, I get a feeling that you’re the one, who could fill up the void inside. And once, I’m whole, we could start working on your cracks.


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"Lengva būtų visa tai pavadinti literatūriniu nudizmu, jei Marijos Djačenko kūryboje nebudėtų skaudus jautrumas tiems, kuriems atrodo, jog savo egzistenciją įmanoma pabrėžti ir susinaikinimu." - ROBERTAS KETURAKIS “It would be easy to call Marija Djačenko’s oeuvre literary nudism, if not the painful sensitivity to those who feel that their existence may be stressed by self destruction.” – ROBERTAS KETURAKIS