Theory of broken string

If you listen to another's pain long enough, it begins to speak in your voice.

[theoryofbrokenstring]

This blog is not an attempt to be seen. It is a deliberate act of being.

I am not here to build a brand, become a personality, optimize my existence, or turn my inner world into something consumable.

I do not hide because no one wants to look at me. I remain private because I genuinely love privacy.

This is not loneliness born from rejection. This is solitude chosen with pleasure.

I do not measure my life in followers, visibility, or relevance. I do not need my face, my location, or my daily existence to be publicly accessible in order to feel real.

I am here because I love words. Because I love thoughts that do not need applause. Because I love creating things that can simply exist without performance.

This space is not a product. It is not a campaign. It is not networking.

It is a quiet corner.

A place for poems, fragments, reflections, and things I do not wish to hand over to the machinery of constant exposure.

If you found me here, welcome. But understand: this is digital hermitage by choice.

I am not absent from the world. I am simply living outside its demand to be endlessly visible.

[theoryofbrokenstring]

We were just taking ourselves with us.

Same people.

Same mistakes.

Just older.

spoiler: you can’t outrun your own shit

[theoryofbrokenstring]

Sometimes fate

is like a small sandstorm

that keeps

changing directions.

[theoryofbrokenstring]

the date of your birth and when you faded in my cupped hand are one, and not two dates

[theoryofbrokenstring]

I kept walking —

as if losing myself

might finally mean arriving.

[theoryofbrokenstring]

Somewhere between waking and becoming unbearable to oneself — I am a cage, in search of a bird.

[theoryofbrokenstring]

In the depth of winter,

I finally learned

that within me

there lay

an invincible summer.

[theoryofbrokenstring]

For here there is no place that does not see you.

[theoryofbrokenstring]

Not for reading. For discomfort.

The silence depressed me.

It wasn't the silence of silence.

It was my own silence.

[theoryofbrokenstring]

The leaden shade of indifference

Barely touches, I suppose, the view.

Although… I used to listen with such pleasure

To evening's chime — a broken sun.

But moments quietly gather

Into a droning, drawn-out tune…

II

A few small shards of earthly joy

Turn idly in open palms.

I trade — without the slightest grief —

For heavy, over-fermented wine.

A shard of lost inspiration

Hides at the bottom — once you hit the floor…

III

And from the sky

They cannot see me

Through the fans of cloud —

The angels play their scherzo still…

IV

Oh, how I wish

That someone's hands

Would push the shards —

Like in a fairy tale:

Through eye, through heart…

[theoryofbrokenstring]

There was a sense of quiet.

The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead there were little daily miracles.

[theoryofbrokenstring]

nothing was lost

it just

changed shape

[theoryofbrokenstring]

Vera Polozkova is a great russian poet, who has spoken openly against the war. For speaking truth, she has been labelled a terrorist and extremist in Russia. This is her voice — I just tried to translate it as carefully as i could.

world's collapse for a neurasthenic —

it hurts and it feels right.

grief had mercy on you, good-for-nothing —

and befell everyone alike:

oh, you are not alone in rejection's hell

of constant self-defeat.

now reality — simply reflection

of what burns, fervent, beneath.

grief won't get through me, we once said —

because I am its Rubicon.

we saw our own in mute delirium,

saw them stepping out of windows and gone.

but we never saw the dragon's tread,

the city's scars and sores;

we were untutored children, holy lord,

and we being grown — evermore.

with survivor's guilt comes now the fear.

the fear of becoming vile,

when the stars hang like they're embroidered

right before your eyes —

innumerable legions,

the lord's immeasurable gyre —

and the living were known to weep here —

with tears of bliss and fire.

thankful — when it collapsed, not covering up

everything that had burned.

simply leading yourself, crone, to the shore

to catch your breath and turn.

and you squinting like a lizard,

and you coughing, catching a smile —

everything truly broken? well, summer child —

there you are — you came true.

no more vice of rules, no more crawling through,

no more knocking yourself down.

no effort to please, no performing for

the vampires and fools around.

no more hiding your own otherness,

not a grain of falsehood from here —

only one: to hope, to praise, to mourn

and to see.

[theoryofbrokenstring]

those repulsive, alarming yellow flowers

[theoryofbrokenstring]

Find what you love and let it fucking kill you.

it always does.

and still we look for it.

[theoryofbrokenstring]

World

Will die

In half an hour.

Done with the power

Of miracles —

Feast.

No

Beginning,

But not without end —

The street at night bends.

Was screaming

Here.

You...

The others...

Void, strangled —

Traces, tangled...

Help them

Cool down.