The silence around me is broken only with the heals tapping on ground.
Step by step, foot by foot, word by word.
In my head.
Looking ahead into the gray curtain of dry trees I walk.
Step by step, tap by tap, beat by beat.
Of my heart.
Behind me navy blue clouds rise up and race the sky.
Step by step, meter by meter, one by one.
Over the sun.
Sudden wind blows me away from my path, pushes me on towards the last rays of light.
Step by step, beat by beat, one by one.

And I think about the meaninglessness of life living the past and worshiping the dead.
What is the aim of hopelessly living if you hear only of what has passed.
How can you be happy if your pleasure should drown in tears of harm.
Why should you think about the future if the only value are the ghost of sacrifice.
There is no place for breathing when you are surrounded by phantoms of years way back.

Soft whisper of rain falling filled my ears with it’s monotonous song of life.
Drop by drop, step by step, tap by tap.
Of my stride.
The gray labyrinth of branches grew larger and larger as I neared the park.
Drop by drop, breath by breath, one by one.
In my eyes.
The rainy mist covered the visible world with cold veil of disguise.
Drop by drop, look by look, sigh by sigh.
Over my skin.
The gust of silent wind pushed the bigger and heavier tears of the sky.
Drop by drop, breath by breath, sigh by sigh.

“Sleeping between the storm that was and the wind which fails to come…
…and blow us away”

“Storm” by kantellis.

// quotes from “Abysmo” by Moonspell

Wiatr różowej rozmowy
Wiatr plączący swymi palcami włosy na moście przyjemności
Różowej od poświaty roztaczanej sponad rozmarzonej głowy
Rozmowami otoczonej, głośnymi i przenikającymi myśli
Rozmowy róży wiatru

Deszcz rozpraszający światła miasta w zimnych kroplach
Bębniących o dachy osłaniające katedry dworców chaosu
Ciemnością otulające kroki wibrujące w wieczornej ciszy
Ciemność bębnów deszczowych
Cisza dziewiątej godziny

“Cisza” by kantellis.

There were angels dancing on the lake
Their white wings making cold breeze
Their light hands lifting up clouds

There were angels dancing on the lake
Barely touching water with their bare feet
Pale toes caressing surface, crystalline

There were angels dancing on the lake
Their white skin glimmering in candlelight
Their pale blue eyes reflecting sliver stars

There were angels dancing on the lake
Smiling at you, who saw them that night
Reading your soul as you met their eyes

“Il y a des anges” by kantellis.

The morning was so quiet that day. Anyway, what one could expect after such a huge and long battle? Everybody was asleep, either eternally or just out of tiredness. Only she was awake. She was too anxious and too excited to rest just now. Looking around the camp by the battlefield she went in her mind step by step through all the events of the past week. The horrible fighting and the glorious victories. The deep dark nights filled with fire and screams and the cold pale mornings full of grieving and crying. But all that was over now. They could rest. And bring new peace to their kingdom.

She nearly missed her bus stop to work. Getting out she noticed, that she has left her umbrella by the doors to her flat. She looked up to the gray and heavy sky hoping that at least she would make it for her office before the rain would start.

Soft and fresh rain started pattering on men’s armours. It gave the moment a purifying feeling – like washing off the stains of blood from the body and clothes. Like cleansing the swords and arrows afterwards. Like turning your face towards the sky to feel the tiny droplets of water falling onto your skin and trailing down towards the ground. With your arms spread. With your hair loose. With your lips slightly parted.

She got to the building quite on time – the moment she closed the doors a gray curtain of pouring rain fell down under the weight of the autumn sky. She made her way to the office and checked her e-mail before getting down to work. She had a lot of things to do so day passed imperceptibly fast. Too fast, one would say. She felt she’s done almost nothing when the hour came to go back home. And outside, the rain was still falling.

The whole day she was walking up to people and talking with them. Giving comfort to those who lost their close ones, praising those who helped bring victory and helping those still looking after the wounded warriors. She had to keep a good image of her family so that her people would remember them as those who cared and loved and not those who brought pain and suffering. She had a long day behind but even longer night ahead. But before that, she went for a walk into the forest to seek strength and energy.

She barely made it to the bus station. The gray curtain followed her till there and it seemed it didn’t intend to leave her alone. Waiting for her bus and shivering all over her body with cold she tried to find something to do. She started walking there and back again to keep warmer and studied the building of the station. Than suddenly she came to the realization that it looked like a gothic cathedral. The long and high nave going along the axis was adjoined by rows and rows of aisles on both sides. The dark of the night created the illusion of infinitely distant ceiling and the light coming from orange sodium lamps resembled the one getting through stained-glass windows. She got lost in her own imagination until the almost leaving bus woke her up.

The trees, slightly inclined one towards another, created a path leading deep into the forest. She followed it absent-mindedly for quite a while and came back to the camp. The great feast was being prepared with full haste and she was glad she didn’t have to take part in the work. Even though she would prefer to keep away from the festivities she knew well her position didn’t allow it. She had to attend and keep smiling all the way through. Walking past the warriors she caught the eye of one of the best soldiers and he bowed his head courtly. She replied to him and continued on to her tent to get ready.

Eating alone was never her thing so she just took some fruit and her coffee and sat on the sofa with a book in her hand. After watching the evening news, accompanied by her favorite music she dived into the story that she got to know the previous day. Being dragged in by the fascinating events and tantalizing characters she never realized when her head dropped onto her arms and the book fell down on the floor from her open hand.

The feast and the singing and the dancing whirled around before her eyes making her feel a bit dizzy and finally losing her ground. But she didn’t fall. She felt strong arms holding her and lifting her straight up. She knew the feast with her people has now ended for her as well as she knew she would stay in the cathedral-like forest for the whole night. And not alone.

“Her double life” by kantellis.

How do you know what’s real?

2. a person with no individual style but the one currently and temporarily perceived by the media as trendy, fashionable

3. a person trying to build their own style despite being flooded with mass production of monotonous and repetitive clothes

victims, aren’t we all?

On voudrait trouver, savoir, garder
On voudrait aimer, haïr, convoiter

On allume les lanternes avec le feu chaud comme l’amour
On les laisse s’envoler dans le vent froid de la nuit

Et moi, je regarde la magie avec mon petit
Et moi, je fais un vœu à une étoile filante
A une, à l’autre qui tombe sur la ville dormante

Photo of Noc Kupały celebrations in Poznań on 21.06.2011 by kantellis.

And than they grow restlessly in our mindscape and embrace our thoughts with strong creepers and tickle our imagination with small leaves.
And than we grow overwhelmed by their promises of magical landscapes and starlit sparkling black night’s skies.

Detached from the reality, held tightly by our perfect worlds we dwell inside our minds and kiss the flawless lips of time.
In the rain of our ideal crimson droplets we slip away from our bodies to stay longer and longer in the night’s strong arms.

And than the light shows up on the horizon of our thoughts and we hear a gentle voice calling our name in the silence deep and dark.
And than we start to crawl away from our dreams, slowly, frightened, trying hard to breathe and not to fall back into the abyss of the night.

But even though we are free again the fresh air stirs the whirlwind inside our minds and makes our thoughts dance anxiously in the rythme of our hearts.
And even though we should feel free there is something missing in our eyes when we look ahead searching for the spark of a midnight star.

And so we dive again into the dreamscape that invites us with its promising lies and endlessly flowing rivers of delight.
And so we loose our consciousness ans reason to just taste the sweetness of freedom and magic for just one more time.

“Out of the storm” by kantellis.

For it is the scent of the life waking up in the early morning tinged with fresh myrtle pine-needles and bistre bark still wet from the late night soothing rain.

It is the whisper of the cereal caressed by the gentle wind blowing, buff and amber and fulvous in the august midday sun.

It is a pearly white glittering of a crystalline frost on the fallen leaves of sangria and saffron and rust.

It is a prismatic dispersion of sunlight in drops of rain frozen in time on withes of a birch between carmine and jade and cobalt dark.

It is a pale chilly morning still wrapped in the winter’s thick mists but already gleaming with warm spring rays of the sun, lazily and calmly rising up in ivory and gold and lavender.

It is the sapphire silence on the vermilion and tangerine lighted city streets of the Wednesday summer night.

It is the world around with all it’s indigo to lust everyday sights.

However the more beauty we try to descry the more flaws we notice aside.
In the tea rose lips, viridian dreamy mind and the deep cerulean sky.

“Summer love I” by kantellis

“Come and go” by kantellis

Il y a une année que je suis arrivée à Strasbourg.
J’étais avalée par la vie française avec tout ces pours et contres.
Avec les baguettes, les voyages et la bureaucratie.
Une année très longue, un an trop court.
Une demi-année extrêmement intensive.

Il y a un siècle que je me promenais excité dans la ville.
J’étais impressionnée par la ville très variée de laquelle je ravissais.
Des bâtiments, des arômes et des couleurs.
Un siècle très longue, un siècle trop court.
Une pièce de ma vie énormément passionnante.

ll y a une éternité que j’avais un endroit à moi.
Je rêvais des grands rêves, je jouais des grands jeux.
Des paroles, des idées, des étreintes.
Une éternité très longue, une éternité trop court.
Une partie de temps que me manque toujours.

ll y a une éternité
ll y a un siècle
ll y a un an…

…que j’avais un endroit auquel j’ai appartenu.

Color my day by kantellis.