dar nesuplėšyti užrašai

Galvojau, kad pavasarį turėtų būti lengviau. Bet ne. Ir net vasarą netapo lengviau. Ir rudeniui prasidėjus dar ne lengviau. Bijau gatvės, ir sienų, ir garsų, kai švilpia vėjas ar kažkas tau kažką sako. Ir gramatikos irgi šiek tiek truputį bijau. Nežinau ar aš dar šiek tiek tebesu gyva ar jau šiek tiek mirusi..

Vienas žmogus man sakė - grimzti į save gali būti visai malonu, jei savęs nebijai.

私は自分が恐れ利増す。

Ant mano palangės šiuo metu įsikūręs pavasaris - trys baltieji gvazdikai. Gėlės, kurių kvapas silpnas it lietaus - jį užuosti gali tik prikišęs savo nosį arti arti, prie pat vainiklapių.

Žinojot, kad angliškai gvazdikai vadinami ‘Carnation’? O japoniškai beveik taip pat, nepaisant tik jų savotiško tarimo - ka-nėė-šion.

‘Akai carnation’ - raudonas gvazdikas. Dėl šios dainos aš stengiuosi nuolat turėti gvazdikų ant savo palangės.

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O čia mano šiandienos muzikinis atradimas:

Korėjiečių grupė Bigbang - Heaven.

Mano mėgstamiausias užsiėmimas pastaruoju metu yra laikyti sienas. Kad nenukristų ir išliktų tose pačiose vietose, kur visada stovėjo. Skamba labai keistai.

Kaip ir maniau, į vasarą reikalai pradėjo gerėti. Nors man vis dar gresia egzaminai ir pasaulis atrodo keistesnis nei kada anksčiau. Iš pradžių galvojau, kad depersonalizacija mane pribaigs. Bijojau pati savęs. Vos sugebėdavau nueiti iki mokyklos ir sugrįžti atgal. Dabar pradedu suvokti, kodėl man taip nutiko. Kartais pasaulis turi apsiversti aukštyn kojomis kad pradėtum suvokti savo klaidas ir galėtum pats sau padėti. Ankščiau dažnokai galvodavau apie savižudybę. Ne su mintimi ką nors sau pasidaryti. Tiesiog galvoje, kažkokiame tamsiame ir saldžiame minčių užkaboryje tai šmėkščiodavo kaip atsarginis variantas - ar manęs pasigestų? Ar verktų dėl manęs? Ar kaltintų save dėl mano mirties? Ar gražiai atrodyčiau karste? Manau daugelis žmonių, ypač mūsų melancholiškame krašte turi tokių slaptų sadomazochistinių fantazijų. >>>
Kai kurie jas įgyvendina. Tik kabantis pakaruoklis atrodo veikiau šlykščiai nei gražiai, o žemėmis užlietą kūną pažįstami pamiršta dar nepasibaigus gedulo pietums ir gyvena toliau. Labai niūrios mintys pavasariui, bet visai nenoriu čia lieti kokių nors savo depresinių nesąmonių.

Ko gero depersonalizacija yra vienas geriausių dalykų man nutikusių gyvenime. Pastaruoju metu labai aiškiai suvokiau, koks stebuklas yra gyventi. Jausti savastį, savo kūną, pasaulį, regėti šviesą sklindančią pro langą ir užuosti jūros sūrų vėją. Labai banalu ir paprasta. Bet to galėtų ir nebūti. Ankščiau pykau ant motinos, kad mane pagimdė. Dabar suvokiu kiek žmonių taip ir negimė. Kiek jų išvis dar neatsirado ir kiek buvo nužudyti tiesiog įsčiose. Net jei gyvenimas visiškas mėšlas, ir galvoje kiekvieną dieną sukasi tūkstančiai šlykščių minčių, o pats jautiesi sumautai, nes neatitinki kažkieno standartų - esi per storas ar per plonas, kvailas, protingas, keistas, šizofrenikas, liliputas su milžiniška nosimi.  Vien egzistuoti, būti ir jausti yra nuostabu.

Tiek apie kosmosą.

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Radau patį geriausią laiką(15 dienų iki egzaminų) žiūrėti japonišką dokumentiką :DDD Visiems kurie nelanko 12 klasės ir šiuo metu neturi ruoštis egzams ir norėtų šiek tiek susipažinti su pamišusios šiuolaikinės Japonijos visuomenės užkaboriais labai rekomenduoju pažiūrėti šį filmą:

Ištrauka su angliškais subtitrais :

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O pabaigai prastas(???) rusiškas popsas:

Vakar buvau Kino pavasaryje. Žiurėjom filmą apie Šiaurės Korėją - ‘The Red Chapel’ Puiki dokumentinė komedija, rekomenduoju.

Filmą sukūrė Danijos režisierius, kuris specialiai filmavimui subūrė netikrą komikų trupę “Raudonoji Koplyčia” iš Pietų Korėjoje gimusių, tačiau vaikystėje danų įvaikintų jaunų aktorių. Neva jie žavisi komunizmu, nori aplankyti savo gimtinę, tačiau pirmam vizitui renkasi ne kapitalistinę Pietų, bet Šiaurės Korėją, kurioje nori vietos jaunimui parodyti savo trupės pasirodymą pagal kultūrinių mainų tarp Š.Korėjos ir Danijos programą ir tuo pačiu nufilmuoti dokumentinį filmą, tam, kad parodytų pasauliui, jog Šiaurės Korėja, nuostabi šalis, priešingai nei tai bando pateikti blogieji amerikonai. Žinoma, tokia idėja - totally fake. Vienas iš filmo veikėjų - cerebriniu paralyžiumi sergantis vaikinukas - Džeikobas. Jo kalbą labai sunku suprasti. Kai jis kalba angliškai - iššifruoti dar galima, tačiau daniškai, net jei Š.Korėjos agentai ir įsigudrintų rasti danų kalbos vertėją - neįmanoma. Vieninteliai, kurie supranta - filmavimo grupės nariai. Tuo ir naudojasi režisierius, kuris į Š.Korėją atvyko su idėja, pasinaudodamas Džeikobu parodyti komunistinio režimo absurdiškumą. Filmavimo trupė vaidina spektaklį - neva jie žavisi Š.Korėjos komunistinėmis idėjomis, didžiuoju lyderiu Kim-Jong-Il’u, tobula tvarka šalyje, o Džeikobas vienintelis gali kalbėti apie tai, ką mąsto ir jaučia iš tiesų.

Ir nors vakar ir žvengėm iš to kaip Brangiajam vadui danai dovanojo picų kepimo įrankius ir teigė, jog taip pat trokšta, jog Danijoje būtų atlikinėjami branduoliniai bandymai, tikrovė Šiaurės Korėjoje ne linksma, ir net ne tragikomiška. Neįgalūs naujagimiai Šiaurės Korėjoje yra nužudomi vos gimę arba siunčiami į specialias koncentracijos stovyklas, kur suskirtomi pagal savo negalios tipą ir laikomi nežmoniškomis sąlygomis. Jei šeimai, gyvenančiai sostinėje Pjenjane gimsta neįgalus vaikas, visa šeima iš jos yra ištremiama.

Manoma, kad koncentracijos stovyklose Š.Korėjoje laikoma apie 200 000 žmonių, nors skaičius gali būti ir žymiai didesnis. Ir tai ne tik politiniai kaliniai ar žmonės nuteisti dėl menkiausių nusižengimų - ar tu gimei neįgalus, ar netyčia prisėdai ant Brangiojo vado atvaizdo. Tarp kalinių - ir vaikai, kurie gali būti net ir trečios kartos kaliniai, kurių tėvai jau buvo gimę stovykloje ir jie patys joje gimę, nuteisti už velniai žino kokį nusikaltimą, kurio net nepadarė ir nieko nežinantys ne tik apie Ameriką ar Kiniją, bet ir apie Pjenjaną ar gyvenimą už koncentracijos stovyklos tvoros. Internete radau interviu su vienu tokiu vaikinuku, gimusiu koncentracijos stovykloje, bet kuriam iš jos pasisekė pabėgti į Pietų Korėją. Tekstas ilgokas, bet labai rekomenduoju perskaityti iki galo. Šiaurės Korėja domiuosi jau keleri metai, bet apie tokius dalykus net girdėti negirdėjau :

My Family Background

My North Korean name is Shin In-kun (South Korean name: Shin Dong-hyuk). I was born on 19 November 1982. I was a political prisoner at birth in North Korea.

According to what I know from my father, Shin Kyong-sop, he was born in 1946 in the village of Yongjung-ni in Mundok District, South Pyongan Province, near Pyongyang, North Korea. He was the 11th of 12 brothers. It was in 1965, when he was only 19 years old, that great tragedy struck his family.

One night, before dawn, policemen rushed into his house, carried away all the furniture, and loaded the entire family onto a truck. It took all day before they arrived at the camp No. 14, operated by the State Security Agency (SSA).

From the moment they arrived there, they were all separated and treated as beasts. With a few rare exceptions of meeting his younger brother in the same prison block, my father knew nothing about his brothers after this. My father was appointed to work in the mechanics’ unit in the camp, and he did his job so well that one day my father was rewarded with the news that he would be allowed to wed a female inmate, Chang Hye-kyong. They became husband and wife from that time on.

They were allowed to be together for a mere 5 days or so before they were separated again. From that time forward, my father and mother were not allowed to see each other with the exception of some rare special favor in recognition of some outstanding performance in their work duties.

I know I have a brother who was born a few years before me, but I have little memory of him. I saw him only 3 or 4 times until 1996 when he was executed in the camp. He may have lived with my mother and me when we two brothers were very young. Nonetheless, I have no memory of him in the same house with me nor do I have any memory of him in my early days.

My Early Days

I was able to live with my mother for the first 12 years of my life. My mother was a farmer, starting work at 5 o’clock in the morning and returning home at 11 o’clock in the evening. She was always so busy and I have little memory of any affection between mother and a son.

She brought home 900 grams of corn for herself and 400 grams for me, along with 3 pieces of cabbage, marinated in salt, and a very small bucket full of coal. In fact, she finished work at around 9:30 in the evening but was forced to attend a daily Ideology Struggle Session for one and a half hours.

In reality, the objective of these sessions is to punish prisoners for failure to accomplish a work quota, violation of rules, etc. During this time, prisoners are forced to accuse each other and beat fellow prisoners. From 11 o’clock, it is curfew and no prisoners are allowed to be outside their shelter. This is a standard routine for all prisoners in the camp.

I faintly remember that I often toddled my way to her work with her but she was always so busy that she did not have any time to show me her love. Today, I remember my mother but have no special feelings for her.

I remember that one day I was sent to the 5-year course primary school in the camp where we learned how to read, write, add and subtract, and nothing else. I have no memory of the first day of school. I now remember that there were some 30 children in each class, two or three classes each grade up to fifth grade leading to a total number of some 400 children. I was never curious about where they came from – they were either born there like myself or arrived in the camp as children.

One day when I was 9 years old, my school teacher, always in SSA uniform, searched the children and found 5 grains of wheat in the pocket of a girl. He made her kneel directly in front of us and in full sight, then began to beat her head fiercely with a baton for about an hour until she fainted. It was strange to me that her head never bled but many bumps raised on her scalp from the punishment. We carried her to her house, and were told the next day that she had died quietly the night before.

A child was beaten to death and no one was held responsible nor punished! The school teachers in their SSA uniforms had the right to do whatever they liked. This is a common and almost routine case in the camp No. 14, not an isolated or exceptional case.

Once, when I was 10 years old, I followed my mother to work in the rice fields, as the children had been ordered to help their mothers plant the rice. The work began at 9 o’clock in the morning and we were under strict order to accomplish the work quota. On that particular day, my mother was quite weak and already somewhat pale in the morning. She complained about a headache. No one was excused from the work as this was the rule in the camp. I worked very hard to help my mother. Nevertheless, our work was very slow.

The SSA officer was furious with our slow work. My mother was ordered to sit on her knees on the paddy road with her hands raised straight up in the sun when all other prisoners were having lunch. Helplessly, I looked on. Precisely an hour and a half later, the SSA officer came to her and ordered to start work. She was already weak, badly punished, and had no lunch. Nevertheless, she did her best to do the work until she fainted at around 3 o’clock in the afternoon. That night she sat on her knees for two hours and some 40 prisoners accused her of being lazy at the dreaded punishment session that evening.

When I was 12 years old, I was sent to middle school and then to work from there on out. I was separated from my mother to stay with other children. There was no actual class in the middle school. We were given all kinds of work - weeding, harvesting, carrying dung, etc. No study, all work.

Power Plant Construction Work

We children were mobilized for the work of installing a medium-sized power plant during the period from spring of 1998 to the fall of 1999. We were between 13-16 years old.

During this period, I saw so many children killed by accidents. I used to see public executions and dead bodies, but this was the first time I witnessed to many children who were killed by accidents. Sometimes, 4 to 5 children were killed a day.

On one occasion, I actually saw eight people killed by an accident. Three plumbers were working high up on a tall cement wall, three 15-year-old girls and two boys were helping them with mortar below. I was carrying mortar to the children when I saw the cement wall falling. I shouted, “Look out! The cement wall is collapsing!” It was too late and 8 people were buried under many tons of mortar. No rescue work took place. The security officers just shouted at us, “Don’t stop your work and keep working!” Once again, this was not an isolated case but only one of many such cases in the camp.

I Was Tortured by Scorching

At around 8 o’clock in the morning, 6 April 1996, I was ordered to report to school immediately. When I arrived at the school, I noted a passenger car waiting at the school. The people who emerged from the car approached me, no questions, hand-cuffed and blindfolded me and drove me to an unknown location. I felt like we were descending in an elevator, and I found myself in a dark chamber illuminated only by a single light bulb, when they removed the scarf from my eyes.

Directly before me was a man sitting at a desk in an empty room. He gave me a sheet of paper and told me to read it. There appeared the names of my father’s brothers, two of whom had collaborated with South Korea during the Korean War and then fled to South Korea. This is the very first time I understood why my father and his brothers were brought here. I wrote my name and placed my fingerprint at the bottom of the document..

This was a secret underground torture chamber in Camp 14. I was in cell No. 7, a dark and small room with no light except a small electric light on the ceiling. There I was told that my mother and brother were arrested at dawn that morning while attempting to escape from the camp, and I was told to tell him all about a family conspiracy.

This was an awful and unthinkable crime and I jumped with surprise at the news. The next day I was taken to a chamber, full of all kinds of torture instruments. I was stripped, my legs were cuffed and my hands were tied with rope. I was hung by my legs and hands from the ceiling. Some one told me to confess the truth about who started the escape plan. I said I had known nothing about it.

Strangely, I had no fear at that moment. Even today, my lack of fear at that time remains a mystery. Someone started a charcoal fire and brought it just under my back. I felt the heat at my waist and shrieked. I instinctively struggled hard to avoid the flames. My torturers pierced me with a steel hook near my groin to stop my writhing, then I blacked out.

I don’t know how long I was unconscious but I found myself in a cell that rocked from my own feces and urine. I summoned all my strength to get up but felt great pain at my waist. I found blood and wounds at my lower abdomen. As days passed, the pain grew and my flesh began to decay, stinking so terribly that the guards avoided entering m y cell. Next, they moved me to a cell opposite to mine. A very elderly person was in it. He said he had been imprisoned for well over 20 years. He had been reduced to skin and bones. He did not divulge any more about himself, but I will never forget how he quietly helped me in my time of need.

Once, as he gave me half of his food ration, he said, “you are a young boy and you need this food to stay alive.” With his kind attention and, perhaps by the grace of God, I began to eat and my health began to improve. One day after many months sharing a cell with him, I was finally summoned by authorities and transferred. This was the last time I saw the old man, a living skeleton, who had been so kind to me. I will never forget him and came to love him more than my parents. This was the man who instilled in me a strength of will that my parents had never been able to give me.

I was next brought to a room and found my father on his knees on the floor, and I learned for the first time that he had also been arrested at the same time as I had. We were ordered to be fingerprinted and to sign an affidavit saying that we would keep secret everything we knew about the place and would tell nobody about what happened to us or what we had seen. This was on November 29th 1996.

My Mother and Brother Publicly Executed

Then, we were blindfolded again and taken outside. I had been kept in an underground cell without sunshine about 7 months. They next took us to a kind of public square where a crowd of people had gathered. I recognized the place as a public execution site that was used 2 to 3 times every year. The hand cuffs were removed from our wrists, and we were told to sit in the front row of the crowd. We saw 2 convicts, a man and a woman, being dragged to the site from some distance. As the convicts were dragged closer, to my shock, they were my mother and brother!

My brother was obviously very weak, his bones clearly visible beneath his skin. My

mother seemed swollen from head to foot and her eyes were inflamed. An indictment was read aloud, the details of which I don’t remember, except the final words, Chang Hye-kyong and Shin Ha-kun, enemies of the people, are sentenced to death.’

My mother was first executed by hanging and, then, my brother by a firing squad. I simply could not bring myself to witness their murder. I looked at my father when the moment came. Tears were running down his cheeks and gaze was fixed on the ground.

After the execution, I was again separated from my father: He was sent to work on a construction site, and I was sent back to school. Things were no longer as they used be, I was now deemed the son and brother of traitors. Teachers just punished me repeatedly and arbitrarily for little apparent reason, and I was the target of constant discrimination. I urinated in my trousers many times as my teacher did not allow me to use toilet. I can never remember not being hungry. One day, I discovered 3 kernels of corn in a small pile of cow dung, picked them up and cleaned them with my sleeve before eating. As miserable as it may seem, that was my lucky day.

My Niece Raped

My niece was among a group of prisoners collecting acorns up on a hill one day when they were spotted by guards. My aunt and sister were separated from the group for questioning as to why they were so close to the barbed wire fencing.

My cousin was 21 or 22 years old at that time and was very pretty. Two guards began to fondle her, as her mother bitterly protested. The guards tied her mother up to a tree facing the trunk and blindfolded her. They then proceeded to rape her daughter in broad day light.

My aunt fainted. When she woke up, she found her daughter naked and lying unconscious on the ground and having trouble breathing. The guards were nowhere in sight, My niece never recovered consciousness.

Her mother wailed in a loud voice and told everyone she met in the camp about what had happened. Soon afterwards she disappeared, and no one knows what happened to her. This is how members of our family disappeared one by one.

Perhaps, my father’s family line will disappear entirely from the earth. As tragic as it is, this is not only my family’s story. The fate of all 40,000 to 60,000 prisoners in the camp

At the Garment Factory

I finished middle school and was assigned to work as a sewing machine repairman at a garment factory. There were a total of about 2,500 prisoners in the garment factory; 2,000 of them were women. There were a large number of young women in their 20s, 30s and 40s, and many of them were quite attractive.

The women were not provided with proper uniforms, so their breasts were easily exposed to the prying eyes of SSA officers. Seven good looking women are selected to do the cleaning of SSA camp offices. Not surprisingly,. many women vie for this position because they are able to escape the normal kickings and beatings while at work. Even the risk of occasional sexual abuse is considered profitable for the usual violence and wrath of SSA officers.

Park Yong-chun was a pretty girl from the same class as me and would be 25 years old now if she were still alive. She was picked to do the cleaning job in the camp office. One day, we discovered that she was pregnant. There were 4 of us from the same class, and we did our best to cover up her pregnancy. She would certainly disappear if found to be pregnant. But her pregnancy was soon discovered and she did disappear completely. No one knows what happened to her. This is what can happen to any women prisoners who clean the offices of camp officers.

One day, I was carrying a sewing machine base up to the 2nd floor when it dropped, as my arms became fatigued. As punishment, my middle finger was cut off

Sometime in mid-2004, late in the evening, just as the daily punishment session was over, when 4 SSA officers strangely appeared and asked us “Which cell has the largest army of lice?” Some prisoners responded, “Yes, we have a lot of lice.” The SSA officers said, “Ok, then, use this water to clean your body.” And they gave a bucket of water to a group of seven women in a cell and the other bucket was given to a group of 5 men in another cell.

Nothing immediately happened when they washed their bodies with the water, except that the water looked somewhat milky and had the same odor as the insecticides used in the fields. However, in about a week, red spots appeared all over their bodies, which began to fester. Within a month, their bodies were covered with running sores.

They simply could not get up for work. When we thought that they were about to die, a truck came one day and carried them away to an unknown location. Had I washed my body with that water at that time, I would surely not be here today.
One day in 2004, a Park (I am unable to remember his given name), a young North Korean prisoner, was assigned to my section of the garment factory. I was instructed to show him how to operate machines. We became good friends and through our conversation he opened up my eyes to the outside world for the first time. This young man had the experience of traveling in several countries in Asia and told me so many things about his experiences in the outside world. He encouraged me to escape from the camp at the first opportunity and to experience for myself a world outside my existence in the prison camp.

Escape from the Camp

On 2, January, 2005, about 25 of us, men and women including Park, went up to the mountain to collect firewood. I was in the lead. I suddenly found barbed wire in front of us. I looked at the other prisoners around me who were all busy collecting fire wood.

At this moment, a memory flashed through my mind: of my mother and brother being executed, and the nightmare of the torture I experienced afterwards. Carefully, Park and I approached the barbed wire. I had no fear of being shot at or electrified; I knew I had to get out and nothing else mattered at that moment..

I ran to the barbed wire. Suddenly, I felt a great pain as though someone was stabbing the sole of my foot when I was passed through the wire. I almost fainted but, by instinct, I pushed myself forward through the fence. I looked around to find the barbed wire behind me but Park was motionless hanging over the wire fence!

At that desperate moment I could afford little thought of my poor friend and I was just overwhelmed by joy. The feeling of ecstasy to be out of the camp was beyond description. I ran down the mountain quite a way when I felt something wet on my legs. I was in fact bleeding from the wound inflicted by the barbed wire. I had no time to stop but sometime later found a locked house in the mountain.

I broke into the house and found some food that I ate, Then I left with a small supply of rice I found in the house. I sold the rice at the first mining village I found and bribed the border guards to let me through the North Korean border with China with the money from that rice.

My Way to Freedom

As I was born a political prisoner, it was only when I had escaped that I saw North Korean society for the first time. I only saw it for 20 days, as I was miraculously able to cross the frozen Tumen River and safely arrive in China in January, 2005..

For about one year, I worked at a Chinese logging site at a remote mountain near the border and was given an amount of Chinese Yuen, equivalent to about 90 USD, for that entire year’s work. I arrived in Quingdao via Changchun and Beijing by train and bus.

I begged a South Korean man at a Korean restaurant in Quindao for help. He took me to Shanghai and managed to bring me into the South Korean Consular office there. I am here in South Korea after spending 6 months in the Korean Consular Office in Shanghai.

Iš:

http://www.northkoreanrefugees.com/2007-09-atbirth.htm

Šiek tiek nuotraukų

Lietuviai labai pesimistiška tauta. Mes mėgstam gailėtis savęs ir kaltinti likimą, nepaisant to, kad gyvenam geriau už daugiau nei pusę pasaulio gyventojų. Aš - ne išimtis, bet labai dėkoju Dievui, Visatai, ar likimui, kad negimiau Šiaurės Korėjoje, juolab tokiomis sąlygomis. Ta šalis panaši į vieną, didelį, beprotnamį.

Galva prašviesėjo.
Buvau gerb. Razausko koncerte. Iš pradžių nenorėjau eiti, bet vis dėlto nuėjau. Negalvojau, kad muzika taip gali paveikti. Arba publika. Cigaretės. Teigiama energija ir budistiški raudojimai. Pavargau, jaučiu malonų nuovargį kojose, gal pagaliau galėsiu normaliai išsimiegoti.

Man patiko jo žodžiai. Labai. Nemaniau, kad ir Lietuvoje galima atrasti kažką panašaus bent į Akvariumą. Man asmeniškai už dėdę Borią geriau. Nors iki Ševčiuko trūksta. Et, bet tokie vertinimai tik briedas.

Vakaro planas : pabaigti žiūrėti paskutinį ‘Yamato nadeshiko shichi henge’ epą. (Nežinantiems - tai japoniškas serialas. Ne, japoniški serialai nė velnio nepanašūs nei į meksikietiškas, nei į amerikietiškas, nei į rumuniškas muilo operas.)

Man patinka, kad japonai rodo ne kažkokias kurviškas propagandas a la ‘Gossip girl’ ir ne banalius veblenimus, o tikrus - tyrus dalykus. Pasižiūri ir širdyje geriau pasidaro.

‘omae wa omae ga ii desu yo’ - esi gera tokia, kokia esi. Labai paprasta, bet kaip tik to man dabar ir reikėjo.

じゃね

Ne nusižudyti, o išnykti. Gal gelbėtų miegas. Grįžtu į savo 12 - 15 gyvenimo metus. O gal jie niekur ir nebuvo dingę - tūnojo manyje. Didžiausią dalį savo paauglystės praverkiau. Ne dėl patyčių ar ko nors panašaus. Tiesiog buvau labai jautrus savimi nepasitikintis vaikas. Iki septynerių mano gyvenimas buvo nuostabus. Kvapai, spalvos, emocijos. Tai strykčiodavau iš džiaugsmo, tai neapsakomai liūdėdavau. Jokių pustonių - tik juoda arba balta. Kai pradėjau lankyti mokyklą, ir daug mąstyti, gyvenimas tapo beveik visad juodas. Nežinau kodėl. Tiesiog išgyvenau milžinišką baimę ir nepasitenkinimą savimi. Vėliau tai rituliojosi tarsi į nepykantą. Nuolat jaučiausi nepakankamai gera, neatitinkanti kažkokių bendražmogiškų standartų. Ir nuolat bandžiau jų siekti. Kokius aštuonerius metus kiekvieną dieną mano galvoje sukosi vien mintys - kaip pasikeisti, kaip pasikeisti, kaip pasikeisti. Juoda, juoda, juoda. Ir penkiolika kibirų ašarų.
Ar žinote, kas tokio yra depersonalizacija? Tai gyvenimas tarsi stikliniame gaubte. Arba rūke. Iliuzijoje. Aš tarsi po dangčiu. Aplink mane skrieja žodžiai, mintys, daugybė daugybė minčių. Įvairios teorijos. Kartais atrodo, kad turiu laikyti pasaulį, kad jis nesugriūtų. Laikyti save, kad savęs nepamesčiau. Ar mano kūnas - tai mano kūnas? Kur jis yra? Kieno mintys sukasi mano galvoje, jei man jos nemalonios? Man nuo jų skauda galvą, smegenys traška, tarsi plėšiama žalia mėsa. Atrodo nuolat turiu stengtis, save gaudyti, laikyti, kovoti su savimi. Nežengti nė žingsnio į šoną, kad nesudegčiau. O baisiausia yra vienatvė. Baisi vienatvė. Žmonės šalia - jų kūnai, siluetai, žodžiai mimikos, veidai. Tik to negali pajausti, jie tarsi be gyvybės. Tušti, mechaniški. Iki to, manau kaip ir daugeliui iš jūsų, būdavo tokių akimirkų, kai jautiesi vienišas, kai taip skauda, tarsi nieko nejaustum. Kai patyriau depersonalizaciją, bet kokį jautrumą tarsi atjungė. Kažkokios cheminės medžiagos, impulsai smegenyse ar panašiai. Dingo tas spaudimas krūtinėje, kuriame slepiasi džiaugsmas arba liūdesys. Nieko. Jokio laiko, tikrumo, tik galvos spaudimas ir žodžiai, daugybė žodžių. O šiandien man vėl pasidarė liūdna. Tai tikriausiai geras signalas.
Nesiginčysiu, kad esu mazochistė. Iš tiesų reikia būti ypatingam idiotui, kad save taip kankintum. Ir būtum taip susikoncentravęs ties savim. Čia nieko gilaus, jaudinančio, keliančio gailestį. Tik idiotizmas.

Gimiau visiškai sveika. Rankos, kojos, galva, protas. Sako, graži, kaip lėlė. Kūklačka. Niekada nebuvau tokia vieniša, kokia jaučiuosi. Keletas draugų ir draugių, kurių tikriausiai deramai neįvertinau. Šiek tiek veiklos.

Viskas atrodo taip rimta, taip sudėtinga, skaudu. Ir vieniša. Noriu vaikystės. Ir savasties.

Kodėl rašau? Nes noriu viską išrašyti. Ir išsiųsti į internetinę erdvę. Kur manęs niekas neatpažins. Gal palaikys mane “nenormalia”, “nesveika”. Whatever. Iš tiesų visai nesvarbu. Koks skirtumas, kieno standartų neatitiksiu. Juk, kai nepereini per tai, ką išgyveno kitas, nesuvoki jo būsenos, žodžių ir jausmų, lengva tai smerkti. Prisijungsiu prie anoniminių verksnių būrelio.

Praėjusį sekmadienį patyriau depersonalizaciją. Kas nežinot, kas tai per daiktas, linkiu taip ir nesužinoti. Jokiam, jokiam žmogui nelinkėčiau patirti šios būsenos.  Kol nesužinojau, kas su manim vyksta, maniau, kad mirštu. Pasiėmiau dienoraštį ir rašiau į jį tikėdamasi, kad jei mirsiu, mano tėvai paims, perskaitys jį ir sužinos, kaip juos myliu ir kaip jų atsiprašau už visą savo bjaurų elgesį. Neketinu apie tai išsiplėsti. Net internete. Tiesiog, norėjau, tai, kas su manim  vyksta, patalpinti savo bloge. kad vėliau turėčiau kaip atsiminimą, priminimą, to, ką išgyvenu. Žmonės nuo to nemiršta. Tai praeina, ir gana greitai. Mano gyvenimas ir toliau lekia. Laikrodis tiksi. Aš einu į mokyklą. Aš valgau. Aš kalbu. Kvėpuoju. Mąstau. Vėl bus pavasaris. O po to vasara. Saulė švies, ir bus gera. Bus žymiai geriau. Tik.. tik.. tik.. niekas nebebus kaip buvę. Nes taip likti negali ir negalėjo. Aš pernelyg ilgai žaidžiau su gyvenimu, savim ir savo siela. Viskas bus kitaip.

Šitą eilėraštį parašiau pirmadienį, per fizikos pamoką. Meninė vertė ir kitoks briedas man nerūpi. Į Ševčiuko rimus nepretenduoju. Tik norisi jį čia išsaugoti.
———————–
Du lašai lietaus
Nukrito ant akmens
Ir dingo
O po to giedra.

Nežinia kodėl tik du
Lašai
Pabiro iš dangaus-

Aš patalpinau juose
Savo baimę ir nerimą
Kad dingtų su vandeniu-
Įsigertų į akmenį,
Nutekėtų į žemę,
Įtekėtų į jūrą.
—————————–

Bijojau, kad nepradėčiau rašyti eilėraščių Štai ir pradėjau XD Gal tikrai, kažkas negerai? ^^

Pasakysiu paslaptį. Žadėjau nerašyt eilėraščių. Ir nežinau, kas man pasidarė, bet nei iš šio, nei iš to parašiau. Netyrinėsiu meninės vertės. Tiesiog jis, toks, koks turi būti. Bet aš jį čia įdėsiu.

—

Aš nebijau mirties -
Ji tarsi besapnis miegas
Buvęs nuo pat pradžių iki manęs -
Tyla ir niekas.

Aš nebijau mirties,
Nes kas keisčiau už gyvenimą galėtų būti:
Felinio filmai
Transcendentinės mintys vakare
Ir vynas iš ryto
Sudužusi stiklinė pieno
Kraujas Ermitaže
Mintys ir žodžiai
Tai su prasme, tai be.
Visi vardai
Lengvabūdiško laiko palaidoti
Kurių gal ir nebuvo niekada
Girgždantis sniegas
Žiemą
Ir jausmai
Reikalingi it katės kniaukimas prieš vėją.

Dar niekad gyvenime nesu taip įskaudinusi kito žmogaus. Kito tokio man brangaus žmogaus. Dar niekad nesijaučiau tokia kalta. Visada atrodė, kad esu pakankamai padorus/dvasingas/supratingas žmogus. Šiandien pamačiau, kad nė velnio. Nežinau, reikia už tai dėkoti ar verkti. Baisiausia, kad beveik nėra galimybės tai ištaisyti. Sekmadienį šis žmogus išvyksta. O aš jį tikrai, labai nuoširdžiai ir žmogiškai myliu.