THE STORM BELOW

he spent two days alone
behind closed doors
alone
his back at the wall
facing the window looking over the balcony

there was a storm
light rains
a lot of wind
he could tree tops pushed forth and back swinging
the whole day long

he ate toasts made of black bread with goat cheese
drank tea black and green
no TV
no radio
no Internet
no book
no walking around the large, six-rooms apartment

he was just sitting
lost in thoughts, if that really means anything

day dreaming not

absent?

he just had moved from Armenia to Russia

now the prospect of working

after four years of unemployment

+ this new situation, having to speak Russian all the time

all that, and other things unknown

had left unable him to find his voice

voices don't travel well

I am talking about the one he would hear

when writing

many years ago there was a certain war

villages were burned that he saw when they were still smoking
who burned them
but the crazies
soldiers, warriors, gangsters, politicians
all of them making evil use of the money they steal from us
one way or another

why am I writing this?

he was there, in that large apartment
because of that damn war
and now he was left unable to write, voiceless
with terrible memories on his mind
and the unknown before him

he was preparing to go back

he took out the tarot deck
that he used for creating characters in his stories
and he asked the cards this simple question:
How are you?
the answer was: Not in control

he was the Hanged Man
feet over head
the storm below

::: ::: :::

Picture: A skull and more