Eleven Minutes

  • I live like a hanged dog – got used to everything. I’m not sure if it’s right.
  • So, what’s plan B?
  • I haven’t got plan B, I live in it.

Sunday was lost: I played Moby all day long, smoked and ate Russian salad. After seventh or maybe eighth cigarette I felt in need for a cup of black coffee.

There was no coffee left, it was raining, I made my-self a cup of Earl Grey.

I read an article on smoking. Did you know that one cigarette shortens life by eleven minutes?

I heard it once before from a passer-by when I was having a sandwich outside a coffee shop. He slowed down to chat up two young women who were having cigarettes over their coffees.

  • I read that one cigarette shortens life by eleven minutes, – he explained.
  • You never know what’s going to kill you… – replied one of them.
  • Sex prolongs it by nine… – he mentioned smiling, – I can help you to restore the balance.

Women laughed, so did I and lit up a cigarette. Without any thoughts, ay thoughts about future.

I rarely think about future, it’s like trying to see the way through the fog: keep straight and hope for the best.

I had another cigarette, this time thinking about things I could do in eleven minutes. Write a letter, tell people I love, that they are the best, smoke three more cigarettes, watch Trip to the Moon, stich a sock, take a nap, have a piece of milk chocolate with hazelnut, take a shower… change the world. Change my-self?

If I listen carefully, I hear mice fucking under the washing machine. Or maybe that’s only buttons touching the glass of washing machine door?

Reality is divided into levels. I haven’t thought all of them through yet.

Ground level – reality where rest defeated by monotony, there are lack of emotions (if any) and life is fitted into twelve hour bracket. First level – the other twelve hours that are dedicated for preparing for bed, sleeping or waking up. The third level – reality diluted with booze, where each minute seems different and colourful, depending on quantity and liquor consumed. The fourth level, where I often find myself is reality where one lives in past, future but never in the present moment, it’s getting lost in the labyrinths of fairy tales, a mixture of ground and first levels, life based on movies, embodying one character or another, but never being your-self, this is a tiny red line separating sanity from insanity. Insanity the fifth level of reality.

I begin to wait for tomorrow, because I totally screwed today up. And this is becoming my routine: I wait for better days as if they will change a thing. On the other hand, this anticipation arises pleasant uneasiness and agitation.

A blind date with tomorrow.

And each time tomorrow disappoints me.

How can you be your-self if you haven’t got the least idea who that is?

I got twenty dollars bill in my pocket, a pack of tired Parliament cigarettes, matches and a mobile phone. Plenty of desires in my head…

Melancholy.

I almost fell down the stairs. I’m in the third less stable level of being. We drank tequila with slice of lemon and salt. After the fifth shot I remembered His life philosophy: keep calm and carry on/…

And mine: /… until tomorrow, with eyes shut, like a hanged do.

This could be a reason why we ever happened?

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Marija

"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