Pyro – my passion and inspiration.
This is a digital version of my poetry and photography book.
When stood outside at 5:45am I feel the warmth. Golden sunlight, melodies of the wind, my steps making that wonderful sound as I walk on pavement, my mind’s a breeze as I feel my body being gently torn by wind, it’s so ever changing – loud, quiet, harsh, cool and warm, all the same yet never the same.
Never mind my thoughts scream at me as I look up at darkening clouds, inner screeches and rusted sorrow, oh how I hate the spring bird song.
I put myself to bed, a pat on the back and hope for escape. To breathe again, to live. I close my eyes and feel rain crashing in cold salty waves.
Sleep never comes as I lay staring at the ceiling with closed eyes. The faucet is dripping, clock ticking – too slow.
It is Wednesday now. No work, no nothing, just 5 am and me outside again. Walking aimlessly in hopes of coffee and a smoke on the edge of the street. Falling behind a fast-walking old man. Tiny camera in hand.
I’m so lost, yet I’m my own mistake.
Eyes pacing, heart at ease. That’s my feel with music. Starwatching through the sunroof, talking passing wendigos.
Like a puzzle piece – a box of matches, brace for me in your arms
So cold.
In comes the comfort in comes the flame, one so confidently striking, the other simple, almost plain
In foggy minds rose a ripple catching itself in slow motion, static skies, horned dark woods and smoke.
I lost myself in life ambience, the buzzing silence, white noise, the conditioning swooshing air around, water dripping from my tap sometimes in early hours of the night, unopened messages swallowing me in fear. Sink never empty, bed already lost its warmth. My alarm goes off 6 times a day, all ten minutes apart, when I need time to myself most is never when I have it. 5 pills a day, all taken in haste.
Same videos playing on repeat, my comfort shallow, pens that used to litter my desk tucked away in the third shelf on the right, droopy eyes in midday, heavy hands, empty stomach, a deep knowledge, rapid breath.
Open close and open again, I sing in my kitchen a melody well known, lyrics – my own, how can a place I call home feel so empty and lonely with my voice clear and loud, my lights tinted yellow – for warmth in sight, poster on a wall from a favourite show 6 months not watched, and why do I still think so deeply of something that ruined me last.
My friends are my joy, they bring me happiness beyond understanding, my small yet kind and caring family, although what used to be daily chatter, spending time together and idle doing of this and that changed, everyone’s changed, people have grown and my friends have grown lots, they now have their own things, their own daily chatters with new faces, some remain, yet in a day it all changed, like a light switch it flicked into nothingness, what used to be undeniably daily for me turned to radio silence, what I gave is not enough, they’ve grown and I stayed, I cherish every moment yet I wasn’t enough.
Shine bright my dear sweet nothings, my hollow specks up there, all void thoughts, empty promises, wide variety of choices. Be there so full of yourselves, so special, so grim, so beautiful, so eerie, I’ll stare at you from down here.
I’ll stay and smile at you all from miles away, nothing but the shape of my figure in sight.
Soaking in lukewarm water, music playing from a playlist called in numbers and a hashtag, mind’s a fog much like the smoke coming out whenever I do, I stare at the metallic circle on my tub the sight unpleasant, my hair up in a bun, mascara rubbed on, damp and down.
Gentle snow hesitantly melts on my face as I tilt my head up, it’s strikingly cold, stirring my mind, melting dull greys into bright colourful hues, I breathe in passion – exhale life.
I don‘t regret you. Weary passerby. You spoke the world to me and beyond, yet never have you shown me a thing.
My snowy hill my pyro, your tires are all worn. You screech and turn and slide on rocky roads. Wet windshields.
Snow covers my ankles, knee deep in the painfully white blanket wearing a short skirt and sweater woven in silver lies, my eyes wide, head bare from any lingering thoughts, the short-lived feeling of rush, my face reddening, distant echoes of voices from people nearby, pulling me back to warmth.
A passing storm, rain on my fingertips, crouching down by the lake, wet strands of hair stuck to my face, eyes calmly streaming down with grief, wind passing through my drenched scarf settling it still in air whilst in silent rush, distant shout of a breathless man, deep within my heart.
Field after field yellow flower bound, let me run through high stems, let me face the sky above and feel in same height as the highest petals, let my field of vision view the world clearly, let me believe in facts rather than look deeper, the sky is coloured blue, wind has no colour, it smells of dirt and flowers, the sound of people singing fills my ears, pyro please let me see what’s below my feet rather than wonder what’s up in the clouds, let me drown those choking sobs echoing in trembling voices, let the candles I sheltered from harsh gusts live on. I drown in yellow flowers, reality makes me small.
Inhale exhale, call me the infinite sleeper, evening awakener, avid dreamer, time skipper, life waster.
Left over pizza, my mother’s soup in the fridge, a painting unfinished cast on my wall, presents unwrapped.
I glance at myself in the mirror seeing a being capable of all turned into a talentless fool who still smokes staring at the screen unable to get stupid thoughts at bay.
Oh my spark, my silent whisper of a song, why must I search for you in every passerby.
Once blissful snow, now ruined by the heat, once a rainy day – now torrid, those yellow flowers now a burning orange. I fell so deep, yet as always, I fall on you.
My pyro, my everlasting passion, why must your very presence feel like a warm summer day, oh my sweet autumn child why must you make me feel this way?
restricted.
restricted four more times.
Iris flower alone on an empty mossy hill, surrounded by birch trees, green and yellow leaves littering the ground, river nearby shimmering like stars on a bright clear day. My very own footsteps long grown cold, rings lost and buried in dirt, glasses flipped upside down. A tune carried by the wind, a voice smooth delicate and flowy, fingertips touching, a ghost of a hand on my skin.
It’s 3:08 am on a Friday morning, higher up so I can reach the windows, watching cars pass by while soft tunes lull me into messy thoughts. The soft hum of wind making leaves sway, faceless blur of people aimlessly walking in straight lines.
It’s now 4:27 am, I lay in bed.
restricted
Rain at dawn, broken radio posts waving down the forest floors.
All I wish is to create, never fall apart or deflate.
Snowy storms, little raindrops dew on grass, cracked glass.
All I want is to create, to write and sing and love.
Stood by the railway station with trains of thought.
Stations from Vilnius to Kaunas changing yet never stopping, signal weak as my hand which is asleep stuck by the window.
Reflections blinding, feels as if I’m staring at someone when I’m seeking if only a glimpse of outside.
Trained thoughts, if I smoke will it stop?
Deep into the night my head already hurts, blue haired speck of dust, so small, so dependable, so hungry for motivation, for earnable luck.
I want to get lost in sandy dunes, feel gravel and pine beneath my feet, see the old wooden cross, hear the water, crows and trees, have a coffee by the shore.
Just like I used to, just like before.
The world is grey, I see no colours, even a swampy pond looks like water.
I hear colours I listen to the rustle of the forests, I know colours I feel the city buzz by.
The path is fenced, it leads through fields of boring shops, Kaunas Castle drowned in silence, frozen in time, still.
I had to watch the days pass by with lights dimmed in my eyes, watch the trees tremble, winter seep in.
Oh, Pyro it is now 4:36 am, think aloud of what sound is, it dances, turning into dust, thing barely visible only when these moments, savoured, come to life on the screen. Sound is colourless in a coloured image, so different, but the same in every blink. Like a window in which, every time you pull back the curtains, something new will appear.
I lay on the floor, hearing nothing.
restricted
Fingers glide on the steamed over glass, drawing pictures and writing nonsense on the windows, music loud, I can barely hear you.
We’re trying to get past into a time forgotten structure, oh these unknown wonders.
Please Pyro, take me with you.
I haven’t smoked in months, can’t do this or that, these scattered boosts of inspiration carry me though time, I realise I paint more in autumn, write more in winter, explore in spring, lay in summer.
It is January now.
Why is it so easy to care for others, it’s effortless, calming and in my nature, yet when it comes to myself, I find it hard to breathe if it means it’ll help me.
I’m so tired.
The need to feel needed keeps me afloat, yet helpless, I’m lost.
Just give me time and I’ll try better, to be, to earn, to love and feel.
My head feels light, all these ideas, the chatter in the skull, these propositions to myself, yet that linger of doubt, so silly.
I’ll wish for something Pyro, I’ll be your lucky star, I’ll give you my all.
I’ll wish for tomorrow, I’ll shield you from it all.
Don’t worry too much, come find me and understand this, what you got, isn’t all you’ll have.
You’ll shine high and bright
I’ll give it my all
Will sink down in the sea, close my eyes and drift beneath.