Chained, R.

As deep down as possible. He buried his emotions diving into it as deeply as. Into the deep sea. Taking every new day, every new night in. Clouds. The passage of time. Breathing in, breathing out. Diving in again, making his feelings for her his own, burying them deep down below the earth’s darkest layers this time. Below the sea. Remain strong. He must remain strong. Untouchable. Wounds, deep. Scars, invisible. ‘It’s alright. If I don’t think about her, my feelings will go away. She will become a faded memory’. A lie, he tries to convince himself of. But, he knows, dreams of it. Sweats. In repetition. Every day, she is transformed a little more into a lingering ghost in his subconscious. A spectre. Moving below his level of consciousness, she has transmuted into an unattainable ideal. A symbol of the feminine archetype for him. Not knowing this, he walks around without seeing, trapped in the veils of his own blindness. His heart, chained to her. He can’t shake it, shake her off. So, he pushes it further down. Deeper. Deep down as possible. To the earth’s core.


photo: Ryan Muirhead.


Mona’s maritime diary: 18

9/11/2016, 17:09 hrs. Light rain, 6 degrees Celsius, moderate Northwesterly wind
(13 miles per hour)

The riverbank is almost empty. I am in the familiar
presence of seagulls. It’s becoming darker, colder
every day… A teenager, wearing a dark sweater,
a baseball cap and a safety pin attached to the
front walks by. ‘A Love Supreme’ by Coltrane
breaks the silence. It’s coming from the teenager’s
sound system. A welcome invasion; jazz waves slide…
on the river surface… They shine. I smile, feel a few
raindrops falling down my face. I am free fire. Air.
Water. The river of jazz. Flowing, meandering between
the shores of memory and forgetting. Of us. Streams
of sound flow, merge… you, me, this river… in
counterpoint. A memory lands on my palm, softly.
I open my hand… a few jazz notes fly away.



Mona’s maritime diary: 30

Zagreb, 26/11/2016, 16:15 hrs, Cloudy, 9 degrees Celsius, Southwesterly breeze
(8 miles per hour).

I am down by the river’s bank. The tide is high, the Sava
river flows fast. The current is strong. Traces  of sand lie
on the edge of the bank, they’ve been washed away…
It’s the twilight hour, the hour between the dog and the wolf…
The place looks both strange and familiar. My teenage memories
of walks under the Old Bridge one early summer of 1989 emerge.
My hopes, my dreams, my younger self smile at me…
I am 51 tomorrow, yet I am still 17. My heart hasn’t aged.
But time passes differently now. Every moment counts…
A song interrupts the flow of the river; ‘Afro Blues’ by Takuya Kuroda.
The music is coming from the car park next to the river.
Notes of a blue afternoon slowly dissipate… November, the month
of fog in this city. Mist. Reverie, melancholia. Tomorrow marks
also the start of Advent week; it will cheer the city and its people up,
give them some light, warmth, hope in the darkness unfolding
in front of them until the spring arrives… The Old Bridge stands quiet.
To fight darkness, some build stronger bridges, some bring them down.
And some don’t do anything, not even crossing to the other side.
They observe and wait. They wait for the darkness to pass.