Confusion

I tremble.

I forget to sleep, greedy in my intent not to miss a single moment, while the summer frenzy quietly — but inevitably — edges toward its logical end.

With a quick hand I scratch sketches in place of words. I scrawl onto paper night swings, dropped words, faceless silhouettes, the smell of tobacco and lemon, curls of hair, the murmur of water, accidental touches…

A stroke stands in for an emotion. An attentive eye will notice where impulsive scratches soften into fluid lines. And where they break back into chaos again.

It feels as though I’m standing on the verge of a dizzying, enchanting mistake — one without equal, and therefore so dangerously alluring. At the mere thought of it, shivers race up my spine and scatter, starting at the nape, rushing in every direction through my head.

But I will not dare to commit it.

And for the first time, I will regret that.

Since when did I become such a coward?...

*written 8.08.2013 Смятение - Snow's

translated into Eng 20.08.2025