May 4, 2011, Vilnius
I live between crying men, dirty old town apartments, bars and bodies with tattoos, high self-confidence, shaved, perfumed, long, short, all kind of outfit stretching out on the sun for more attention, more attention, more boys. Shining, shining, shining..and between those, that dress only black, always black.
I live between churches, galleries, wineries, souvenir shops, souvenir makers, buyers. Souvenir people… between stocking shops, expensive stocking ladies, that kak!kak!kak the pavements.
I live between downtown parks, where people meet other people and kill their lunch time, evening time, morning loneliness time. And between others that come with their dogs and cats and dogs looking like cats and also kill their already clinical loneliness.
I live between crying men, that cry only drunken, that tell their pains only drunken, that lose all their belongings in one night, stay half naked in winter’s freeze and don’t recognize nobody. They sleep all two days after and don’t remember a thing. They hug their moms and ask for apology and they don’t look into dad’s eyes for three days more, but still live with moms and dads and still drink , cry and forget.
I live between men without guts, nostalgic about past lovers, secretly dreaming random women while sleeping with their wives; Dreaming women from the streets, elevators, parking lots, supermarkets, parties, anywhere; without guts to fuck when they want to and who they want to fuck. If they ever manage so, without guts to tell it to their wives… Unfortunate victims of early marriages, marriages at all. Their wives, even better victims. Lost women, angry women, silent women of decency and family issues…
I live between foreigners, strange sportsmen, working spirits, clerks with no sense of humor, that call me a wife, foreigner, pregnant woman, Ana. They tell me hi and hold a short conversation; I have had three hundred times before.
Between short phone calls with same questions from mother.
Between fading memories about this town and that town
Between unimportant names, boys and girls I will never come across again.
Then I live between laws and regulations of migration, recipes and advices for pregnant, few second hand stores with an hour for special offers, that I try to hit.
And I’m sick of it all.
I’m sick of them all.