On Bridges and Connecting. Daily Prompt.

We build them to overcome the obstacles, we cross them to reach the dream, we pay the toll to the Troll living under it and we burn them to slow down the hunting demons. And some of us, only a few, become Bridges, a human version of burning rainbow Bifröst.

You know these people. They connect worlds, whether we talk about whole realms, or worlds spreading inside everyone of us. Some stand strong and safe, letting those brave to cross to the other side and see the miracles and wonders. Some are rather weak, battered by pounding of thousands pairs of feet. Some will become one only for one single time, they transverse the abyss to save the lost soul from the steep rocky wall. Some will serve where there the ferryman couldn’t fight the strong currents any more.

Some are only one way.. Some only one time..

On Rearrange. Daily Prompt.

Time to time, the nomadic part in me goes berserk. The smell of distance won’t let my thoughts go straight, but leaves them staggering and swirling like drunk dancers, crazy and colourful frame strips and pictures. But I can’t just get my arse somewhere new just because. You need a plan for such thing. But you can do one thing..

Every now and then, to calm that traveller’s fever, I have small ritual. What my mind wants is just a little change without debilitating fear of big changes and new commitments. So, guess what! All I do is just I rearrange my flat. Simples! Refreshing my closest environment.. Two days of walking into things that weren’t there before. A week of admiration of new piece of art or decoration. Two weeks of desperate searching for “that safe place I can put this and that I will never forget”. Three attempts to learn writing left handed. Two late arrivals to work due to trying out new way to get there.. Just getting some fresh air to that “pumpkin sitting on my shoulders” 🙂

And then, when all is fresh and new and interesting again, then there’s time for all those drunk thoughts to sober up, line up again, rearrange and start making sense again.

On Smoke and Signals. Daily Prompt.

So you have this fire inside, burning and spreading the light in your temple. But then something happens.. A bundle of damp grass lands there and column of smoke rises.. A danger, maybe. News. Presence of someone new.. but who can read this old method, your visual cry?

Today we smoke cigarettes, sending yet another signals. That we wanted to be cool. That we wanted to escape. That we wanted to calm down. But over a time it’s just a silent shriek of loosing control and seductive bluish dancing streaks of smoke that is accepted and not many would ask, what danger are you signaling. Apart from : keep away from him, he will die from cancer or cause one to you!

On Banned. Daily Prompt.


Sculpture by Martin Hudáček.


Mommy, you don’t want me?
You let me die before I’m born?
You don’t even know if I’m a girl or boy..
Am I not a fruit of love?
Remember, you confessed your love to someone.
Darkness walking around like night guard,
No one needs to see the lover.

Mommy, you don’t want me?
Are you afraid I’ll take more spoonfuls?
I’d live from crumbs only,
like a little sparrow lives.
I’d pick the berries in the forest.
People ate roots and leaves in wars,
And mothers still swaddled the babies.

Mommy, you don’t want me?
And what if you’ll want to pass the cup
Alone you will call for me in vain.
And what if you grow old,
Who will ask you: “Mommy, are you alright?”
Who will take you for a walk when your feet get lame?
And who will hold you in your death?

Mommy, you don’t want me?
I’d love to see the two most beautiful jewels,
Golden Sun and Moon of Silver,
I’d love to watch the peewits and robins,
When peeping out from their nests.
I’d really really love to see the roses, the clouds and the sky,
But most of all I’d love to se You, my Mommy!

Mommy, you don’t want me?
Are you afraid that I won’t have Daddy?
You can lie to me, that he went away to war,
That gunfire ripped you two apart.
That he left you with a letter, a brooch and beads.
You don’t have to tell me that you split up –
When you go to work, you can put me in the nursery.

Mommy, you don’t want me?
Maybe I’ll find the cure for cancer,
And for aging and I start new Era.
Perhaps I’ll fly to the sky in a spaceship,
Step on the Moon and like on Earth I’ll be walking.
Spaceman I might become,
Just to come home to You for cuddles.

Mommy, you don’t want me?
Are you afraid that I’ll rob your beauty from you?
I’d paint you all up again,
And if I take a bit off you,
You can look at me all day long
Like mothers do with their children
You would need no mirror.

On Transformation and Illusion. Daily Prompt.

You know all those big radical changes and turning points in sense of caterpillar, cocoon, butterfly. And you’re like whoa man, what a progress! Love it!

But what about the everyday illusions of transformation?

I went to TEDx event in Hull. The theme was Illusions. I met a guy there, performance coach, whom I spent all the breaks with. We chatted a lot, discussing impacts of speakers. After Corina Taylor’s speech, where she talked about anxiety and perception, we reflected our own experiences, I suddenly, without thinking spat out:”Well why do you think women wear makeup and certain types of clothes for certain occasions?”

“It’s a trick, an illusion, because sometimes the full transformation would do more harm than good. Take for example women in high positions, with their high hair up dos and padded shoulder jackets, to imitate male archetypes. They need to be tough players in the hard competition in business. But after the deal is sealed, they can go back to loving and caring mother character.”

“Or when they want to be femme fatale, with red lipstick and seductive eyes – makeup and laces will do the magic more than track suit and messy bun. But can you imagine her being predatory female 24/7? You wouldn’t enjoy it, would you?”

So we transform into whatever is needed, either full time or part time. Whether it’s illusionary or real.


On Tiny Cracks Filled With Gold. Daily Prompt.

There’s a Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum, called Kintsugi. As an art it carries a philosophy of embracing the imperfect and instead of hiding the damage, it highlights it as a part of the history of the object.

Like scars, that pink smooth reminders you loved, lived and took the risk..

..like that time when he went to seek attention from another girl, because you weren’t there for him when he needed you. Your heart exploded. But you picked up all the pieces, put them together and fill the cracks with gold made of forgiving yourself and him as well.

..like that time when you promised yourself to be more careful and didn’t do that nosedive, but slowly, one inch at the time, build up the love with all that tolerance and space he needed, but ended up broken again, not making it up to his top five priorities, even though he genuinely tried. So you went again and poured more gold in the cracks.

..like that time you had to make that difficult decision in woman’s life and then spend three days crying and tearing your own heart, hating yourself for what you had to cast away, but knowing it’s for your good. When all the tears dried out, you added some more gold to the new cracks.

All those tiny little cracks, webbing your heart, filled with gold every time they open, will tell your story. And one day it will be story about The Heart of Gold.

On Artificial and Selves. Daily Prompt.

When I saw Artificial in the list of daily prompts, “YAASSS!” was my first reaction. So let me extrapolate on this one from perspective of my several artificial selves.

You see, I’m just an average person with average fears, self-sabotaging attitudes, day-to-day struggles and very subjective view on the world. Very fragile creature deep down, under the makeup, clothes and alter egos. And because times can be rather tough, it seems that nowadays everybody has some expectations you should meet (yeah, haha, joke’s on you babe, I’m over that), I developed some coping mechanisms in form of artificial personas.

Some people aren’t happy with that, they think I’m fake. Oh really? It’s still me, just artificially polite and smiling. Luv, I work in hospitality, I’m a waitress! If you behave like a spoiled brat, I can’t tell you off and send you to your room without dinner to think about what you’ve done. You have no clue that my subconscious is caught up in the warfare, because there’s someone somewhere I care about and things don’t go smoothly, and all that sometimes pierce the surface with Resting Bitch Face (BTW it’s a real thing) when I’m momentarily off the guard.

You yourself walk in with persona of your own, maybe compensating lack of control in your life, talking down to me. And that’s fine, I understand, you have to vent that frustration. So you will meet my artificial self that doesn’t bother being verbally belittled by you. I believe you aren’t prick in your real life. You’re just like me. We both put some spikes on so no one can come too close to hurt us, to damage that soft underbelly.

And what if you’re the boss and shit hit the fan? Your peers rely on you, you can’t crumble. So you put the lion’s mask on and cry in your car in parking lot later.

We al have them, carefully mind-crafted, with precision, armours to keep us safe from the outside harsh world. And sometimes keeping in the bay the irrational inside world to project itself out. Have you ever thought about it? When your self doubt starts coming in waves, panic attack racing with the heartbeat, you’re sweating like a pig, but you need to perform.. What do you do? You take few rhythmic breaths into the chest area to physically calm down the heart, you pep talk yourself, put some bold lipstick on and you fake it until you make it.

We all do it. It’s a human trait. Because as humans, we aren’t specialised species, our specialisation is adaptation.