Анна Мако

Писать я начала… скорее не тогда же, когда начала говорить, а когда начала думать. Размышлять о жизни, видеть все то, что ускользает от чужого взгляда, порой даже жизнь их самих. Мне всегда нравилось красивое повествование, игра слов, чистый, ни чем не подгоняемый полет фантазии. Очень люблю кино, истории, в которых раскрываются герои с разных сторон. Писать люблю в легкой непосредственной форме, и коротко, чтобы не успеть испортить всю первозданность посетившей меня музы. И с юмором, если повезет.

I do love coffee early in the morning, sitting near the open window, breathing in new day, enjoying birds’ lullabies, watching leaves melting inside of sunbeams.
I do love poetic souls and when people make art. I love words, as they give my feelings a voice. I love sharing my stories over a soar but yet delightful cup of coffee. I first wrote my story when facing the reality, and not being satisfied with its outcome, decided to write my own version. I always write with my old pal, as nothing can be better than jazz, at any time of the day, when sun’s down, when it’s rising, it all will do. I see the day off with lovely sound of their voices, singing back smile on my face after a very long scratchy day.

Every time… when I sit and write, thousands of questions start bombing me. Why do I write? What do I write? Will the story be good enough? Am I fooling myself? Am I a good writer? Am I wasting my time? Am I happy?
…. And then I take a deep breath… And in a while I hear a voice, quiet as s leaves rustle.
“Just write. A story will find its way to you…”

Миниатюра “Maybe one day…”

I think a lot about life lately. My sister calls in a side effect of having brains…

There are so many unique personalities in a café. Anyone can be my muse. Maybe she…with wild hair, passionate Fury in winter cold. Or maybe they, a lovely couple in the darkest corner, splendid music plays only for them, lights dimmed only to hide their kisses away from strangers. I set my imagination free, letting it join every table, overhear any word, that accidently dropped off somebody’s lips. There she sits, hiding her eyes from him. Knowing something she knew for too long, that it became impossible to hide any longer.

I remembered the night I left him… with the whole life I’ve been building for years. The masterpiece I thought I’d be proud of. But that night I couldn’t sleep, everything felt wrong, nothing belonged to me, even the reflection in the mirror.

What if I could start all over? Completely forgetting what I’ve been taught. How to behave, to think, what to feel, what to want… What kind person I would be…? What kind of life I could have? Those questions were torturing me for days, and sleepless nights. Maybe because I couldn’t bare it anymore, but more than that I couldn’t forgive myself for being so blind, so deaf, so long…

Recently I feel like I stopped existing, disappeared inside of my imagination, and started living in my very own world. Seeing things in my favourite colors, enjoying every second of my life. Not so bad, ha? I think a lot about life lately. My sister calls it “side effect” of having brains. My sister is also a note-addicted. She leaves notes all over the place she is at, she will do anything to avoid any possible way of committing an actual conversation. She leaves notes such as:

“The window is opened in the room”, to make sure that you won’t be sitting on the draft.

“The porridge is mine”, so she could have her portion of cereal.

“Love you”, to let you know about her feelings.

What would she say? The one who always knows what to do…

– No, we should play here. It’s sunnier here, and mum can see us.

– Take an umbrella, it will be raining today.

And it really was…

How I’ve become so hesitant about my life?

I had an example to keep up to. Maybe because I didn’t have to. Every path I’ve ever taken been dictated by someone else, or something else. Try this, try that, why not…? And I never thought of using the one head I’ve carrying on my shoulders.

It was snowing outside… Winter has already gone, the calendar says so. But its footsteps were still all over every street. I heard a spoon swinging like a ballerina inside a deep cup. I looked out of the window, the city was silent. A few footsteps on the snow, leading nowhere, just like my life. My coat was hanging in the closet, the one I brought from my last trip…

– You’ll never wear it. Why buying?

Like he knew me so well…

– Red is not your colour.

Like he knew what I ever liked…

He was sleeping, as blind as I once was. Pretending that we could… but no more… The coat was on me… Should I leave a note? What will I write?… I’m sorry… Am I really? Why should I be? Can’t I take my life back?

I wish I could join strangers’ table and sit there like we’ve known each other forever. What stories would they tell me? Would they be honest with me like they’ve never been even with themselves? Would they even notice that I am here? What would I tell them? Would my story be interesting to them as theirs to me? So many questions and no answers. Who needs them? Wonder is more pleasant…

Music on the background reminds me of you. Of your touches, of your lips… All the dreams we shared, all the hopes we had, vanished somewhere on the way down… I wondered how many stories mirrors could tell only if it could talk… I wish I could tell you that I can tell them. Be as honest as I’ve never been, so you could know me like you never knew.

Last night, like it wasn’t me. Morning lights brushed away darkest thoughts, embraced me in its warm arms. And everything what tortured my soul all throughout the night was left on the pillow. And I was sitting near the open window, smiling again, like I had no past. No baggage, no weight on my shoulders, light as feather.

Words were filling pages, till there was no blank line left behind. I was there, surrounded by complete strangers, feeling more home than ever, writing a letter to someone I once new. Someone I once loved.

Waiting for someone I might love one day.

Soar spots of coffee soaking into a white napkin. I wonder, what is she reading? A girl next to me. She is going to the bathroom, passing by my lovely couple cuddling in the dim lights. I have a chance to take a quick look at the cover of her book. Never read. Maybe one day…

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