catherinebrae

[catherinebrae]

01/11/2024

Everything that once had become a part of me that significant once were an art, and for now, I am willing subliminally to leave a mark, a trace in one’s life. Nothing has sense when left without beauty.

This is a new form of perfectionism that leads to an infinite search for magnificence in imperfection. Every little detail, even the most insignificant one, draws a thrilling picture in combination. The only problem here is that I lack spectators.

I need someone who will look. Who will observe. Who will immerse. Who will evaluate.

How unlucky I am, therefore, to leave bloody prints instead of flowers, for there’s nobody to look at them.

And yet, what about making spectators a part of my art? Then they are with me forever

Yesterday, I took great pleasure in playing chess with my father. We played 4 games, out of which I won only one.

02/11/24

Silence can be found if you know where to look for it. It will never chase you like a sound. Today is the last time of a warm breath. Today is her birthday.

It is amazing how often she comes to me in my dreams lately, and it is the same as the last warm breath of today. I sincerely hope that she is happy, and to not dive into dissimulation, these will be the only lines I devote to her today.

I understood my hunger. It is not that hunger of food, of the morning meal that I passed. Yet I have no idea what I am eager for. Who am I eager for exactly? My eyes are burned with the Sun of November.

07/11/2024

How to believe in horoscopes? There's no such house that will promise me compatibility. It's predestined for me to watch from the sidelines, even though I can be around from time to time. But it is neither better nor worse, as if somebody else was in my place.

Did you get upset when I left? Or were you just curious why? Did you think about my foolishness and go on? How could I rebuke you for that?

I do not spare leaving the note for you. I do not spare you leaving it without an answer. Everything that you see as a blessing is a blessing for me, so who am I to judge your choice?

Instead, I feel guilty for my expectations. It remains to wait for summer.

12/11/2024

November evenings are becoming colder. Early in the morning, the fog goes down on my town. I love this town, although I had to grow up to feel it with my heart. It will always be waiting for me amid all these mountains. My cradle.

14/11/2024

I noticed me getting used to—and even devouring it—despair. Incomprehensible is the blur between my own will to stay in this labyrinth and the compulsion to stay in it.

On the other side, it helps me to find a phoenix.

And my despair is always the same: looking for someone and not being able to find them. It looks like pomegranate juice spilling over the edges. But only in my head when I try to look at it metaphorically. In reality, it is just me being overdramatic. Everybody moves on on that stage.

20/11/2024

White wine has become for me a symbol of the pain that intoxicates me every time my lips touch the cold edges of the glass. I do not want to pity myself. I am not a little girl who is unaware of the consequences of her own actions. So God forbid me to cry over her again, and again, and again, and again, and again.

I want to live. At the same time, I do not.

Who am I? Where do I belong? I want to scream to the world, show myself as I am.

It scares me that these thoughts are directed at her. Not at me and not at you. I want her to look at me, for her to suffer, for her to cry. I love her and I hate her. I will never forgive her.

26/11/2024

I don't want to listen to strangers. Even for a new story, although it is necessary to write.

I submitted to an essay competition to remember my name. Got drunk again from the wine but had something healthy for breakfast.

Everything is balanced except for the feelings. I adore you more and more, but I continue to sob with hatred. Do you even think of me? Of course, I dream of hearing yes. But there is still common sense in me that whispers in my ear—go away. All that remains is to come to terms with this.

People are coughing and sneezing all around—what can you write about here? A book about what? Maybe about medical provisions, but God, I feel so disgusted."

28/11/2024

She doesn’t love me. She is not obsessed with me. Too calm when it’s a storm. And I am not a poet. I am not a passionate lover. Maybe I am a jester, but I am not a clown.

I cannot look at the snow, for I cry my eyes out. The same applies to you. Stupid decisions, strange coincidences, unremarkable feelings, and a stupid trick.

If she was here now, how would I behave? I would be deafeningly loud for her to notice. She may not see me, but at least she can hear me.

Today the syrniki didn't turn out. Stupid—I didn’t add flour; had to have butter and apricot jam for breakfast. I sent an essay to Belarus. Didn’t put in the maximum amount of effort; it’s not my best work.

Constantly thinking about Kaliningrad. And small things that make our life better. But this simplicity makes everything complex.

06/12/24

I realized what the meaning of this setting sun was. It's not even in you. It's in what it's like to live through something you didn't know or feel before. There's a little less than a month left, which I'll dedicate to summing up. Maybe it's time to stop pretending to be a warrior? After all, I'm weak.

27/12/2024

The New Year is in 4 days. This year was too stuffed with I-don`t-know-why.

Maybe I am not the weakest one?

17/01/2025

The most horrifying thing for me in love that is left behind is to know suddenly that it was mutual.

Just to learn that you lost your time mourning something what is still alive. Not happenning for me, but anyways. But I still search for signs as for fragments of something dear to the heart at the site of the explosion.

Do I need her love? Do I love her or just want her attention so nothing were in vain? The only thing I know for sure is that I want her to love me. Although I will never crawl back to her again.

27/01/2025

Something is changing but I cannot see what exactly.

10/02/25

I am writing this in order to finally put a logical start to that very new life that I have been dreaming about for long enough for it to become a new face of the old model. I have to be honest with myself and look at things as they really are.

The traits of a narcissist are quite rightly traced in me, however, it is absolutely foolish to suppose that my personality is built on unimaginable dogmas, habits and thoughts that modern society today ascribes to people who are doomed to suffer from themselves.

What I want and expect from myself are adequate requirements that I could have met for a very long time, but for reasons unknown to me I hid my own potential from myself.

As for my passionate dream of throwing into the mud everyone who hurt me, who dared to doubt that I am a worthy part, I am not at all ashamed of it and ask that it be called an act of justice, since in its very nature I invest the peace of my soul. I do not take responsibility for its disorder, but I expect it to be cured only by myself. Methods are different, and I will choose the one that completely suits both my soul and my ego.

I want to admit that I hold not just anger towards my friends from the past, but a resentment that truly eats me up from the inside.

One day it will pass. But now I want to say that I don’t possess the slightest respect for any of them and don’t wish anything good. I would only be glad if their lives turned out in the worst possible way for any impudent, pretentious creature.

For myself, I consider it unfair to think that I get the worst of everything. To do that, you have to be the worst of God's creation, which fate itself hates. Obviously, I don't consider myself to be such. I now consider comparing myself to others an insult, because I have not yet found a person next to me worthy of wanting to be like at least a little. I want to be like myself and the ideal of myself that I created by observing people who have achieved something and who have long since left this world.

And about the important thing… Whatever was called what was happening between me and her, it would not have led to anything favorable. Perhaps I loved her, but after what I went through, after the wounds inflicted where least expected, I must admit the failure of even such theoretical love.

However, I admit that feelings still remain in me and God forbid I fall into this swamp. God forbid she beckons me even with a finger, because I can go there. I need to endure just a little bit before this nightmare ends. And yet I am afraid to meet her in other objects of my adoration. I don’t want to anymore.

[catherinebrae]

The turning point of my life was when, standing in the subway, instead of depressing music I turned on the most sunshine and roses one

[catherinebrae]

Life lately

p.s. those are mine thank you

[catherinebrae]

In memory of my love that last.

When my heart broke into pieces, I was speechless, I was numb, I was furious, I felt given up. All these pieces like glass tore me apart, piercing into my lungs, my heart, my skin. Millions of thoughts were running wildly in my head in retrospective, changing one another, almost in a scream. I could not bear any silence back then. I just plugged my earphones and tapped, tapped, tapped the screen, looking for a better noise than thousands of images of them. I will not bring all these itchy pieces together with glue. I want to grow another heart which will be stronger, healthier, and happier.

Xoxo

[catherinebrae]

sorry but imagine learning french, taking notes in literature and immersing yourself into cinematography??? like at the same time??? devoting the whole copybook to those three just to go missing while reading all your thoughts afterwards

[catherinebrae]

There is this dream of mine that I cannot stop thinking about. You`re sitting on our flamboyant carpet from one of the Eastern countries we visited not so long ago. Your hair is plaited in a messy ponytail that nearly falls on your shoulder. You`re typing another email with your brows thoughtfully frowned. I`m sitting on your piano`s banquette, in my dark-green cardigan and white skirt, tuning something in my camera. And then I direct it right on you, call your name and wait for you to turn around. Your face softens, but it still holds this serious expression. I look at your freckles through camera lens and press the button. I wake up without seeing the result, but I know it came up beautiful.

[catherinebrae]

Who made you fall on your bare knees in fierce prayer? With your bleeding mouth closed with both hands, you are crying and afraid of screaming. You are aware of the punishment that comes after. The deep sapphire of the skies hides its stars from you, and you are here, all alone, trying to illuminate your own place. No step forward, nor look back. You are afraid, by virtue of your surplus self-love. By virtue of it, you do not see those like you who sit nearby. One is waiting for the only star in the sky. Another is staring at you until you notice him; he wants to mimic you while you do not see him. Victims of a generation, victims of non-reciprocal love, victims of abuse. What about the victims of the little stage where you have placed yourself, leaving no light for others?

[catherinebrae]

I know what my leaving will be. Not soon for sure; not tragic in a way one could think of when fantasizing about death. It will be quiet, windless, without any matter of weakness and fear. When you desire for something, there is no room for apprehension. But the thought of succumbing to obscure sleep without my own will plunges me into despair.

I may be a little pretentious. Some of my life scenarios are fancy for no rigid reason. But I wish it for everyone.

I will put a gun under my little Christmas tree.

In early December, some casual meetings will be arranged, with benevolent purpose. The old friend of mine, who is fond of reading as much as I am, will receive a great collection of my favorite works that I have been gathering for years now. With another, I will have a long-adjourned game of chess. Maybe this time I will trim her. She is the wittiest person I know, and she will guess what this game is all about.

Will send my secret letters to my agent. So that everybody knows about my hidden love, occult wishes, and nonsensical devotion.

No body under sacred Christmas tree; nobody is going to find me there.

[catherinebrae]

My Winter started in the middle of November. In the middle of once nowhere. My Winter ceased to be just a season and unexpectedly transformed into human being.

Her pale skin, raven thick hair falling heavily on her broad shoulders. She is strong. She is stronger than me. Yet her fineness and her acuteness assemble that feminine beauty that freezes me cold even in hot summer season.

It is the soft silence that comes with winter snow. And the lowest cry deadly rings in your ears. That what I feel around her. Her silence, descending on us anytime I am there, wraps the room as a snowy veil – friends laughing afar brings me back to life. Even when she herself speaks, funning with the others, I am staying in that exact thunderstruck comatose. My hands are freezing till painful redness and I proceed looking somewhere through her.

Here comes another middle of November. But my Winter has not yet passed.

[catherinebrae]

I waited for midnight because it was your birthday and I simply wished to be the first to congratulate you. You were far away from me, at your home with your family, and my turn wasn't meant to be premier. It'd been hour. Two. The night went on and perchance I fell asleep. With a smile, of course. For I knew that you were, indeed, happy and delighted to be within your circle of comfort and gladness. For I knew that in my another dream, I would see you again. You would be in my circle of love and devotion. Good night and happy birthday, my petite biche.

[catherinebrae]

After another date with a man (he was very much approved by my girlie coven to be my male counterpart), I understood that I don`t need anyone to match my freak. I need someone to accept me yet keep me down to earth at times. "Yeah, my girl is a little crazy but it`s just her calendar, don`t take this loony that seriously" while peeling and sectioning pomegranate for me

[catherinebrae]

October`s Child

Lipstick print on the hot coffee cup, grey tile covered with golden leaves, The Goldfinch, frozen glasses and messy hair, red nails, long black coats, tears of losing friendship, lo-fi walks to railway station, midday French lessons, newborn ideas, blurred mascara circles after unexpected nap, longing for Christmas and winter miracles.

[catherinebrae]

Her

I find it dreadfully disheartening how little time I can devote to someone I always call "her". The lack of intimate conversations is particularly painful at times. Our shadows do not touch one another. Neither do our hands. When was the last time she touched me? A year ago or so. It was rather cold winter back then. Now her fingers crawl up anyone but me. Even these who expect it the less, who deserve it the less. She does it in my sight with her back to me. Petite biche, do you keep any photocards in your drawer? I do. I keep the special one, the dearest one out of all. The reverse of it is the only place where she confessed to me. 我爱 - she admitted possessing this magical feeling. She does have love the way all of us do. But she omitted 你. She loved everything. She loves everything. She loved the photocard. She loved that winter as much as I did. She didn`t love me. Chinese became my language of love, the love I didn`t live to see.

In New-York I will be bitching around. In Paris I will get a damn good wine and savor it on my fancy balcony. In Beijing I will be shedding tears over our might-have-been shared globetrotting and choking on local cuisine.