Creative Writing


The world is a zoo. I AM AN ANIMAL. Yet I am not one, but desire to be ONE. Desire to be an animal, but too scared to taste it. More like a puppy. Domesticated animal. Broken animal.

ჩვენთან არს ღმერთი. მართლა? მაგიტომ ვარ ლეკვი? yes. Nice. Seems like it. Devour. Yet the only thing acceptable to devour is words.
Very much not like an animal.

I’m on a maniac hunt for that part of our consciousness that is left only in our desires. Does it exist?

Which part of the zoo? Of its’ concept? The captivity or filth?
I’ve heard this - “a jungle with more guns than roses” there are things wrong with this statement, yet something captive about it as well.

I’m the most manic on the planes. Manic manic manic.
Flights creating sane insanity to purge your consciousness.
Our life has meant for long to burn us here. Is this a conclusion? Or, not, this is a question that becomes conclusion. This actually already is a postulate. Should I convince myself now? Not even sure if it’s a good moment for rhetorics. Rhetorics? Wow, yes. It’s always a good time. Frustration. Fear.
Thy need them to reach what’s aimed for. To shape thy eye and launch thy arrow. As wind and humidity do in archery. Life is Archery.

Oh wow, hello there verbal diarrhoea. Coming up with new metaphors for the obvious basics.

Silent Maniac.

Sheremetyevo Airport. Moscow. Just a transit yet already coffee tastes like poverty and age. Not the romantic age, that becomes history. Not even forgotten history under layers of dust. Age. Like the ageing of the cloth you wipe your kitchen tops with. On the plane I am the most manic. When flight turbulence almost hypnotises you and heavy, torrid air sedates you - realisation comes. How pathetic our thoughts are.

- Why are you following me?
- I’m certainly not. - Proclaimed Phéb, continuing to stair at the chair. - It is you who is now my guest.
- Poe once said that he was insane with intervals of horrible sanity. I’m struggling now to think of which one of these is worse and which one of them is you.
- Who is Poe?
- Em.. - Theo looked at Phéb and silenced himself.
- Seeing how you are a nerdy-know-it-all, I guess it should be a book..
- Yes. Yes.. Well… Not really, Edgar Allan Poe was an author, he wrote books. Horror stories of some sort.
- About monsters?
- No
- Then what?
- More about human nature. Pretty much same freaky feeling of insanity as I have now from you. Where is your brother?
- So you think that you are sane and I am insane?
- It’s debatable.
- You are funny.
- Why so?
- Just because. You are funny, I like it.
- You are such a kid.. - sighed Theo. - Where did your brother go?
- Same as you…

Phéb looked back at the chair. And turned her head around in search.

- I don’t see. But he’ll come soon, don’t worry.

Theo leaned over the yachts’ edge, focusing himself on the waves escaping from under the vessel. It was a bit like humanity in it’s attempts to think and reason with itself. Living in its own broad ideology, no matter how sharp cutting it through the ships’ stern is, waves of humanities consciousness escape the touch and reunite into the eternal calamity of its existence.

- I think Poe was right.
- M? - Theo looked over his shoulder back at her.
- “I am insane with intervals of horrible sanity” - she quoted - Beautiful. Although you got it wrong again. I am sane, and you are not. You are dead and insane. Maybe that’s why you are funny. I like it. - she giggled and ran towards her mother approaching them from afar.
- Horrible sanity. If only this way, - Theo thought to himself.

I am wrong. Probably it’s the taste of despair.
Boarding at the gate G4. Destination Tiflis.

The world is a zoo. I AM AN ANIMAL. Yet I am not one, but desire to be ONE. Desire to be an animal, but too scared to taste it. More like a puppy. Domesticated animal. Broken animal that is only allowed to devour words. There is no pith in this, whatever it was. Yet, your encephalon has already connected it to bells.