BOOKS


On trees

From afar, the fireworks were just colorful tree crowns, in the second they existed.
The leaves fell, extinguished in the night, and the tree died.
Fragile and fleeting as life.
The sound came afterwards, and I was the only one to listen.

— e.lisitsa

On pens

Writer or not, we are here to tell a story and no other will be as complex, as beautiful, as unique as yours.
Use your feet as pen and watch out for the twists;
the world is your paper, so let the ink pour out from your mind.

On walls

I just needed to stop a few seconds and notice the Sun dying on my bedroom wall to realize the amazing concert I was missing all around me.
And I just needed to get lost to be part of the audience.

— e.lisitsa

On John Lydon

I was just here listening to the Sex Pistols and thinking how John Lydon is 58, and how the brit punk movement is long dead, and yet the queen still there, unaltered. And the funny part is realizing that “what it could have been” is always more powerful than what we have now. Always.

On indecisions

Come here I’ll give you a hug

and stab you in the back

to cry over your body

and laugh at your funeral.

I will regret this forever,

or until tomorrow 

whichever comes first.

He kept the remains of the time they were together in a drawer full of his life’s conveniences. It was his kitchen knife without handle, rusty, which he could not throw away because no other one would cut his flesh so easily.

Unfinished lives #22

— e.lisitsa

On spectacles

Times like these I feel like a star. Each word leaving my mouth in short waves stretches to heat those who might be around. I try to capture their orbits. I lose myself. The words consume my nucleus, degree by degree, and pass trough the clouds of dust, echoing hoarse cries for help. And isn’t it fun, the human nature? We explode in light to get a second of spectacle, just to see ourselves dissipate in an infinity of darkness.

— e.lisitsa

On recipes

Writing sometimes seems like a recipe that doesn’t impress you at first, and you don’t realize the fault is the lack of novelty after tasting the sauce thirteen times.
Disappointed, you keep it in the fridge, wait a week, and even reheated you find it the best sauce in the world.

— e.lisitsa

On friction

The sound of pencil on paper is a hiss, and everything I write is a whisper.

— e.lisitsa

On shouts

I don’t know peace
and it’s the best
because almost everyday
in some strange way
I got this shouting
inside my chest

— e.lisitsa

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