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About Deviant Core Member Greta20/Female/Lithuania Recent Activity
Deviant for 5 Years
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The one with a heavy heart

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Wake never.


Valetudinarian, foreign body squirming on solid concrete floor. Foreign to the environment, foreign as if to itself. Vacant, faded glare into the crumbling ceiling, into the pipes, eyes shut, eyes open, wake never, wake never, wake never. Purple under the eyes, yet the face remains astounding. Perhaps even more beautiful within seconds. Lips returning into a painful oval. Ready for a dithyramb. Does not know which language to use, how to express, whether it is worthy to return.


But the thirsty gaze is oh so demanding. A gaze of an unhappy being which carefully hides their vehemently constructed agony. A sigh is heard and then as if a subtle weeping; the oval does not release these sounds, it encapsulates them, and pleasant music can be heard. Wake never, repeats the body, and eternal suffering, repeat the walls. Let new agony wrap around your essence and twist your lips as before. Weeping which scares walls, but the music it creates.


How divine.


Desperation. Felicity. Weariness. Resignation. And herein lethargy ends.


The body moves, the face shifts. Indolent and dulled out face immediately vanishes within an ambitious expression, without a doubt – that of a cynic. A rain shower through the open ceiling could not even touch his precisely straight vulture–like nose and preferred the rather carelessly scattered washed out and grey hair which crossed his shoulders generously. Only the delirious and distracted gaze betrayed loneliness and absolute human neglect, dedication and loyalty directed at nothing, now nothing, which gradually became the perfect human hostility. Stands and stares into a hole in the ceiling, as if requiring attention with his perfectly blunt face, even though with clear traces of intelligence from the past. Derangement and quickly growing anger. Disgusted, horrified predator glaring into uncharacteristic and irritating sky. Amusing, when you think of it. I look just like him. Grey and washed out, even if the rain rejects me. Perhaps I see him because I am observing from the rooftop. Truly, I am standing and staring into the hole below me, it is quite dark and cold there, but there is a silhouette, and if I bend a little, I can hear heavy breathing, perhaps weeping, maybe even music. How divine, indeed.


Now I truly do not want to wake up.


You woke up, I hear somewhere a pseudo–pleasant voice, of course, all the voices in this world have to tell me something that I truly do not want to hear. I ignore it and contemplate further. I contemplate about my past. I contemplate about mnemonics. I must do memory exercises if I want to remember. And I am thinking whilst looking at that existing, beautiful and rigidly blunt dot beneath myself, may I, can I, do my mnemonics with another lost soul which, on top of everything, looks just like me, even though I cannot see anything in the darkness of that hole, even though I cannot see even myself, and I did not see myself for a very long time for I could not find any mirrors, nor have I looked for them, at them, I graze my hands around my face and evaluate: what a disgusting, contempt worthy face, and now I am as if looking above, something exists there too, perhaps it is me, but how could I know? It is dark above, dark beneath. Finally, I closed my eyes.


When I closed my eyes, I remembered that it is also one of my mnemonic exercises. When I close my eyes, I remember the month of December. I remember you. You left with first class. It was snowing back then. Irritated, I was trying to find your face in the windows, and I knew that you were looking at me with your face smothered into the window, but all I could see is my own reflection. What a disgusting, contempt worthy face. Seemingly, you were crying a moment before that, and I was glad it was dark, it was always very hard for me to discern human feelings in the darkness when it seems that even the night air reflects me. And what a contempt worthy face. What a subtle and self–hatred inducing oval. I stick my finger into my mouth and furiously touch my molar teeth. And nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Absolute nothingness. But not anymore. Not anymore, because the voice cunningly told me to stop pretending.


I open my eyes, but I do not wake.


I open my eyes, but I do not wake, that is what I utter so that the voice would know that I am not giving up. And I open my eyes, but I do not look, and I am happy because I am not giving up. I am waiting for a menace, perhaps even a strong shake, but nothing happens, all of my hopes and efforts pointless; the voice is silent, and I am lying here, almost hearing its silence. And somehow this silence reminded me what I have heard whilst standing on that leaking rooftop, when I was gazing at this wrecked room and I deliriously thought that I see my own twin, perhaps myself, perhaps someone else, but undoubtedly grey, beautiful, angered and damaged, so damaged that even my own oval for a moment became flat and I was simply gazing into another oval, so distant and dark that it could have been any figure, perhaps not even a mouth, not even a human’s mouth, absolute nothingness, and how I desired that it would be absolute nothingness which silenced my own music. It stumbled upon me suddenly. Nothing stumbles upon me suddenly.


I will look at you, but I will not wake, I make my decision.


My eyes were glaring. And my shut eyelids shone. Do not pretend, I utter and pretend that I am saying that confidently, but internally I am crushed.


Mnemonics, the essence responds, all white, even transparent, and I want to raise my hand and touch her lean waist, but I cannot, I feel physically asphyxiated and weightless, and it seems that the only thing with mass in this room was her hair; unhumanly calculated in how they spread upon her neck, raven coloured and luscious hair. 


Why black, were they not grey like mine, and I rush to add, grey not from an old age for I am still so young, even though I know that she is aware of that and gradually I become more and more unsettled, it is from the sun which so ruthlessly burns out hazel. And I do wish you bad things. Only for you I do not wish bad things, and I could not understand why I uttered these words, and I could see that I distracted her mnemonics, she opened her eyes and for a moment I thought she was my nurse, but only for a very short moment because I knew, I suspected her existence long ago, I remembered.


I remember, cautiously, almost gently.


But you will not wake up, she was trying to look into me, and I was trying to look into her, and our eyes shone together. Wide, dark, non–Lithuanian eyes, as if two solid crescents – they clearly see me, but cynically pretend to look past. On the left side resting in stagnation her laughter line. Unsmiling, but laughing. At herself, not me. Without a sound, no expression. You might feel slightly somnolent, and truly, for a moment I lost my vision and I could only hear the voice. I remember only the voice and that I could always hear it from my right side. A voice in constant recitative. A voice in a tender crescendo. A voice so calm, as if automatically soothing, even if in a childish caprice, lecture or grievance, always so ruthlessly calm; not irritating in its highs, not too low or lush for such an essence. So much soul luxuriance. So many natural senses capable of looking from heart to heart.


Now I open my eyes. To specify, they were open before, but I did lose my vision, so this time I do not open my eyes, but I start seeing.


Leponex and rispolept, gives me an enchanting woman’s smile and raises a toast. Toast, too, is a mnemonic. You cannot combust, her words cheer me up and sadden me at the same, in other words, crush me, but mnemonics take away the moment, I am once again in deep thoughts of December, of the train station, here I am, standing, leaning to a wall, a stranger, beautiful and shining with his eyes into that which presents itself in front of me, and automatically all escalators fix themselves in the train station, and I can almost feel a slight, barely existing, heavenly light summer breeze in the month of December. Moves towards me. Suspiciously points her eyes at me, as if she suspects me of my existence. Suspects knowing me. Elegant and almost pretentious tights and ridiculous prancing whilst walking.


I can. I already planned it out, I am in the train station, she is in the train station, people are rushing to work, indeed – we are the only ones standing in one spot. My death will be a spontaneous combustion. My spontaneous combustion will be so out of place that I will not be capable of examining your face in the crowd. I will cremate my own self. I will take nothing into my grave. All in all, – nothing. There is nothing to take. I only have to wait. I can only wait. Then, perhaps, something will become clear. For someone. Then, I will want something to be clear. I will desire to leave one aesthetic memory, and she stops sitting next to me, she rests to my side, at first uncomfortably, as if scared, but gradually lies down fully, and we like children are lying in the ward. For a moment I want to weep because my aesthetic memory came too soon. My last desire is already commencing, and that means that my death is close.


There could be nothing more aesthetic than this. And never will be. Two damaged souls.


I will lie down next to you, and I will shut my eyes, but I will not fall, she promised more to herself rather than me and it was nauseatingly amusing, as if I am the only one in the state of lethargy, as if she was not there all the time and her eyes did not shine, as if her concern is not the same as mine – not falling, but waking. Wake never, wake never, wake never.


You will have a lot of time to think of everything beautifully. Lots of time. Eternity, good word, I utter it as if for the first time in my life, but then I remembered that it is also a mnemonic, and I curse myself whilst my head is drowning within different scattered memories. I slowly bend myself to her, I can hear her breathing, perhaps weeping, even music. How divine, I think to myself, but my internal is now crushed entirely, and I do not even know anymore which figure I am, my grey hair intertwined with raven hair, and perhaps now hazel, and I can hear myself speaking further with a complete lack of rationale, utterly out of my mnemonics, there is no eternity. Everything is precisely cut. Eternity has already passed. Now everything will be sliced and shared. I wish you would live eternally. I would observe you from afar.


And we close our eyes and we do not wake. Not anymore.


This is no longer lethargy, one of us, god knows how. To fall asleep so simply. Simply and gallantly in regards to the world. Colourless iris underneath the eyelids. I am tired and I want to sleep. And at the same time, I want to open your eyes. To cut or poke somewhere, to hear laughter, your fear. I want you to tell me of your dreams. Who is there? And is it beautiful? Does it hurt?


It is getting late. I can see that it is getting late, I can see that when my eyes are closed and when my eyes are open; even when you reject the notion of waking up, it is still getting late in the world. Snow. The town behind the window looked exceptionally beautiful. I can hear my nurse, she is unsurprised by her discovery – two most beautiful children in the ward, indeed, almost angel–faced, she is not angered by it, au contraire, she raises a toast, but differently from my twin sister, she does not drink it herself, but gives it to me. Leponex and rispolept, and I give an enchanting woman’s smile whilst raising the toast to her.


Toast is a mnemonic. Due to my weariness I finally fall asleep in the train. I think I was in the first class. Expensive tickets, comfortable seats and mirror windows. You cannot see anything through them. You cannot even feel that the train is moving. You have to observe closely whether the lights outside are moving or stagnant. Never again. Third class forever. Now that was beautiful.


I wish there was a fourth class. In hay, pillows and circus elephants. Now that would be a train trip. Resignation, and my lethargy would end.


:iconsmoothpappa: :iconimmerot: :iconphilosophiangirl: :iconstenkat: :iconxpowercut:


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NiquePhotography Featured By Owner 5 days ago  New Deviant Hobbyist Photographer
amazing gallery! love your photographs, keep on doin that and have a nice day :happybounce:
kittycrime Featured By Owner 5 days ago
Why, thank you :blackrose:
NiquePhotography Featured By Owner 4 days ago  New Deviant Hobbyist Photographer
you are welcome =)
Iskaeldt Featured By Owner Jul 14, 2015
kittycrime Featured By Owner Jul 14, 2015
slayferx Featured By Owner Jun 25, 2015
your works reflects the dedication and beauty of the artist
kittycrime Featured By Owner Jun 25, 2015
Thank you.
slayferx Featured By Owner Jun 25, 2015
you're welcome :iconohyoublushplz: 
QCC-Art Featured By Owner May 25, 2015  Hobbyist General Artist
Thanks for sharing the work :)

You can enjoy fantasy images from the QCC Art Gallery here:…

Best to you in all things!
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