I have not yet learned what’s the deal with this play of trust and feelings, even though I have an ocean to stand as a witness for the countless times when the dawns surprised me with mournful eyes. My little charismatic thunderstorms in glasses of soul, I missed you, as if everything was strange and weird without you, and who could have doubt that you will not come back? I knew, I know, and I will always know, no matter how naive I would seem to the outside world, or how much hope I would scatter in the wind.
My sweet Russian Lady, dear and completely idiotic, have you not gotten your wings broken enough, yet? Have you forgotten the old tears, that just barely dried?
I know. You want to yell, break, rip and tear. You are shaking. That’s what you know best. To cry, to suffer and to tremble. Ah, yes! And to offer masks to the people around, tragicomedy in 3 acts, with a happy ending.
“Where does it hurt you, kid?”
Back then you were more sincere. Back then, the pain was still making its way up to the surface. Now, you have become obsessed with collecting, adding and sorting of pain, like a scarce stamp collector.
Come, my little Russian, come with me inside the room of mirrors that lie. We will choose the most beautiful mask and we will go out to share it to the world, with love.
I’ll let you leave behind another scar, well hidden in a soul drawer. I have not seen and I will not see anything …