Marginalia

The spark fades [ you / me / them ]

Darkness, a sudden flash and then the thunder!

Calm, fascination and the immense, primal fear of creation.

A common phenomenon, inevitable evolution, a common emotion,
yet so many images left to write.

A common phenomenon, or perhaps the birth of another species—
copper in the veins, fiber optics for nerves, and the mind dispersed within the tech matrix.

Staring into the screen of an uncertain future:
are you watching, or reading, or feeling, or enduring!

She will always arrive, but what about you?

I train limitations.

Dark roads full of sticky shadow.

I still do not understand it.
I do not accept it.

Sparks in people —
even echoes of light,
I watch for with hope.

To perceive the inevitable end,
to draw wisdom from it,
which will build the future.

Its absence —
yours too —
will ruin the world.

Unable to sleep, the imagination wanders through meadows of memory.

The whisper of yesterday's wind blows away subsequent layers of dust,
revealing a fragile interior, vulnerable as an exposed nerve.

What will you keep inside when the images of the past fade?

It is I, a crumb of memory, setting out on the paths of the story.

We live in times when clean air has become a privilege.

Gas masks, smoke and ash are not a fantasy for me — they are my everyday reality.
A red rose placed among destruction and weapons becomes a symbol of fragile, yet stubbornly persistent hope.

Cracked skin as a map of tensions, fractures and attempts to reassemble one's own body.

A work on the border of control and loss — about what remains when the surface breaks.