Just me and words that never come out right

Half conscious, half asleep,

     not in the light,

     but not in the dark,

Wind gently waving above the surface,

     but never quite touching it,

     never rising waves.

She was lying in her gray savane,

     not yet dead but no longer feeling

     the rush of life in her veins,

Watching the shadowy shapes around her

     but never quite seeing

     what they really are.

Sometimes she desperately wanted to wake up,

     to get out of her stale lake,

     to reach for the sun and be kissed by its rays.

Sometimes she thought she only dreamed about waking up,

     thought she dreamed and made up her life’s story,

     thought that she was water and water was her.

She lived and she died. He lived and he died.

They lived and they died,

     half awake and half dreaming,

     wasting their lives in the muddy water,

Never quite waking up and never quite living.

If I die

Only my landlord will notice.

Internet provider will continue sending me bills.

Marketing consultant will be spending eternity

Listening to dull beeping on my phone line.

All the leaflets and newsletter

Will be piled in my mail box.

If I die

The whole universe will not stop

To commemorate me.

People around me (but not me anymore)

Will continue to rush to do their chores,

To get slowly boiled in their own routine,

Everyone in their own little living box.

If I die

Somebody else will live in my flat,

Somebody else will pay the credits,

Somebody else will have my job and my depression.

Millions and millions of somebody elses,

Until it’s their turn to die, and no one will notice but the landlords.

The anthill will prosper, and grow, and develop,

Building its flawless walls on the bones

On billions of invisible dead.

It’s heart was filled with ice-cold Arctic water so deep that not a single ray of light was ever able to reach its depth. It’s eyes were cyan blue, with tiny dots of bright emerald swirling in the invisible currents within iris, - beautiful eyes that were always closed and yet could see everything through the evermoving waters. It could feel everything; It could hear echo of the Universe singing all around the space. It was not a man or a woman, IT simply was.

It was here since the beginning of time, since the first few molecules of H and O found each other on a bare agonising ball of a newborn planet and decided to unite themselves into H2O in a passionate chemical dance. It grew, It expanded, It conquered vast territories to create a perfect kingdom of both eternal life-giving bliss and violent anger that moved disastrous waves.

It was lonely, and so It gave birth to life, putting all its strengths and courage into its creatures. And those tiny offsprings grew. They drank the glittering blood full of primal forces from the oceans’ veins until they became strong enough to give in to curiosity and explore the vast wildlands and evolve into more complicated beings until, eventually, they evolved into human beings. It was watching them with its aquamarine eyes, proud and envious of its children.

They gave It names: Neptune, Poseidon and others. Later, they mapped It’s body into oceans, seas, straits, etc, claiming that It is just a number of geographical phenomena and locations and not a being. It could never understand this desire to name everything as well as It was puzzled why his beloved offsprings would think of each part or It’s body as a separate thing. Just as tiny water organisms at the dawn of life at planet Earth, human being started to actively explore and travel all around It, in It, into It. It was happy. It felt united and connected to them. It felt accomplished and proud.

These days, It was dying.

It could not tell at which moment everything went wrong, but It’s children abused It’s body, all of it at the same time. They poured poison into mighty veins and spilled waste that tainted even the deepest waters of It’s crystal Arctic heart. They crucified everyone and everything that lived in water. They spilled acid into the bright blue eyes blinding them forever. They poured oil, ceasing the life-giving currents that helped to breath, to cleanse. It felt weak. It felt abused. The ancient anthropomorphic seas was trying to shout for help, but instead of mighty roars It could only feebly moan and whimper, caught in a plastic trap.

It lost its hope.

It sighed, deeply, painfully, with the last great effort, and was gone forever, leaving its suffocated corpse to rot in the spandex and plastic jelly shell till the end of times.

I could give up any minute,

get rid of the stupid alarm clock;

I could just simply quit “being”,

get reborn as an emotionless stone.

I could stop this petty life routine,

set free the liquid fire in my veins,

But then

there would be so many things left

undone, unsaid, unseen,

un-hugged, un-loved, un-thanked,

un-lived.

Hundreds of deeds will disappear with me,

however tiny they are:

my books will choke on the shelves in dust,

the Eiffel tower will not have yet another silly selfie,

my cats will not have anyone to play with,

my love will not hear another lame joke,

and my old mother will not have anyone to comfort her

on an unfortunate evening.

For her forgiving smile and hands made of warmth,

for his quiet snorring and irritating calmness,

for their purring and claws that destroy another pair of tights,

for the breathtaking sights that make history alive,

and stories of the other worlds that flourish in my mind

I’m setting my stupid alarm clock for tomorrow

and taking the crowded stuffy train to work

to do hundreds meaningless things

that only I can do.

          © illirein 2018

[Please know this is not a piece of poetry but only me, dying from laughter]

As a native Russian (and Ukrainian!) speaker, I am sometimes asked to tutor people in Russian or business Russian. In order to prepare interesting and informative lessons, I like to skim through different websites and resources checking whether there are any interesting games or excercises that I may use or prepare similar for my lessons.

Today I’ve found quite a nice website for Russian teachers and professors, who share their materials for free usage among their community. It all looked cool, professional and legit up to the point when I decided to register to their website. The first geen button on the first picture should have said ‘Register’ or ‘Sign up’ or ‘Subscribe’, depending on how one would like to translate it into English. However, something in the Universe went wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong. What the button is actually saying is ‘Pee yourself [pee your pants, if one uses proper English].’ Literally. ‘Pee yourself.’

Furthermore, if you are actually that brave as to click on this button, there are more ‘smart’ buttons from the Russian-language teaching community.

Except for the usual Register-form, the website kindly offers you to ‘Pee yourself via Facebook’ or ‘Pee yourself via Google.’

I know we all do mistakes.

I know my English is far from perfect.

Nonetheless, when you are planning a professional website for a highly educated community, don’t ‘Pee yourself’ and keep your buttons straight! XDD

Love y’all,

My Grandma is always waiting for a special occasion to come and lit up her life. She would never wear a new pretty dress just for a regular day or an ‘average’ holiday, she would never use the exquisite old porcelain set just like that, would never use new things and presents but keep them locked in the closet. My Gran never allowed my Grandpa to wear a brand new stylish leather jacket because he might damage it. She never gave him our last Christmas present because why would he use new things without any special occasion if the old ones are still okay? And then he died. Died not even seeing or knowing that we remembered him, that we bought him a present, which became a pile of useless trash just one month after Christmas. The month, when he died.

Me and my mom, we are a bit of shopaholics when we spend time together. She loves buying me dresses saying that I look in them like a princess, her princess. I already have a collection of all those beautiful dresses labeled ‘for a special occasion.’ Occasion that never comes.

I often listen to my friends’ stories, and quite often I can hear those cursed words, ‘waiting for a special occasion.’ They wait for a special day or some time in the future when they can finally do what they want to do: start a diet, go to a theatre, get a post-graduate, go for a cup of coffee together.

When I look out in the window, I see a sea of people, sea of drawn ‘special occasions’ that never come. I can see my Grandpa and the jacket he never had a chance to wear; I see my new dresses with labels, covered in dust; I see a friend, who’s been waiting already for five years for a good occasion to tell a girl that he loves her and wants to date her, while she has already changed three boyfriends during that time; I see lots of people, who are not alive and not dead – dormant, waiting for That Special Monday or any other special occasion to start living. And I’m frightened.

I’m scared that what if I never wear those dresses? What if I never awake and die dormant? What if on my tombstone, and on many other millions of tombstones, someone’s going to write the same phrase ‘Never had an occasion to live?’

So you can enjoy the view while responding to shitty emergencies at work.

the cruel game of modern love

Once I was on a holiday,

Holidays at my Grandma

In a no ordinary town by the sea.

The days were not neverending,

And neither they were very short.

The sea was not very chilly,

And no one could say he disliked that a lot;

I confess, at that time I was not a good swimmer,

Neither was I very bad - not at all!, -

I spent all my days at the seaside,

I was a very sunburnt lazy mackerel.

My Gran was not too disappointed,

it was not unexpected of me:

To be lying all day, to be swimming all day,

To be lazy all day by the sea.

When the holidays ended,

I couldn’t forget for quite a time

Those beautiful days,

Those not too unfunny,

Those wonderful days by the sea.

© illirein 2017

My skin is burning, Blood thumping in my ears. Eyes. So many pairs of eyes Watching me, Preying on me, Catching every move and sound I make. Words. I have to get my words out. But there's vacuum in my head, Gargantuan black hole Devouring all I have. Hands are sticky, Not enough air To breath. I could have written so much. There were so many Words I wanted you to know. So many things I've never told you. Standing at your funeral, Not being able to produce a word, I wish I was six feet under ground, And you would talk.