Kamin

我们的第三單曲

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Story of Kamin:

Kamin was the name of girl, who lived years ago.
She lost the game to her own egoism.
She didn't stand heavy feelings, laying on her heart.
She crumbled into pieces and dissolved in timeflow.
Only fragments of her words reached us.

Kamin's note #1:
The cold air hurt me. Tears slowly flowed down cheeks and fell.
All day lay on the floor. Broken glass, neatly grinded, did not even feel.
I felt detached from space. It’s like, space is — there, i am — here.
And we can't get along.
I'm so sad. So lonely. I lose others, they lose me.
But what, what, one wonders, can I do?
I can't change something that is durable than the universe.
I should be more honest with myself, but this also cannot be changed.
Painful.

Kamin’s note #2:
Memories dig into consciousness with pain.
Voices, pain, images, signs — everything merges into a name. Into the name.

K A M I N

I want to pretend that I don’t know who they all are talking about, but such hoax will not work again.
I want to become nameless, the one who has no face.
Sounds like a solution, but the destination cannot be changed, however.
Too late, too hard.
I still lie on the floor, fingering the episodes, hot as embers.
Dramaturgia does no work.
Dramaturgia, truly, will not work, while the director is a liar.
Be it a mirror that increases distance, turning everything into an arc of light. That mirror that changes an image, allowing you to see yourself in someone else. It's not about hair or biological sex, not of course. Just someone else who is a reflection of you at an unbearably far distance.
Be it a constant, crazy rewriting of the same pages, in attempts to finish not with the same word as always, or with another syllable, at least. But the last line always ends with the same thing — the word and hasty dot.
Be it multi-colored plates throughout which you look at the world, and even if you throw out them, you will suffer from light spots in the eyes.
Dramaturgia still does not work.
I'm a liar yet.

Kamin’s note #3:
It's better to run away.
This is really a way out.
The threshold in front of me.
I take off everything.
All clothes.
I take a step.
The threshold is behind.
Sufferingly, I do last look at what is left there.
Mirrors. Millions of mirrors.
So many pages.
Set of multi-colored plates.
Pledges. Care. Love. False. Hatred.
I'm really terrible, if I'm going to do it.
Is it the way? Do I have a right? Can I be forgiven someday?
I don't want to let the doors slam.
Close. Click.
Closed.
Echo.