… and what is the colour of grief? Is it black as they say? And anger always red? The colour of that sad shade of ennui called blue is blue but blue unlike the sky or sea, a bitter blue, ruetinged, discoloured at the edges. The colour of a blind man’s noon is white, and is his nighttime too? And does he feel it with his skin like a fish? Does he have blues, are they bridal and serene, or yellows, sunlike or urinous, does he remember? Neural colours like the fleeting tones of dreams. The colour of this life is water.
– Cormac McCarthy, Suttree
I’m back on Bulgarian soil for the winter. In terms of international travel, these past 15 – 16 months have been my busiest yet. It’s Thursday evening, and I am helping my parents unload the groceries. I am exhausted after my 15-hour long journey, but the cold frigid air keeps me awake somehow. In a sense, it feels like I’ve never really left. Do people who travel frequently experience the same? A lingering sense of familiarity with a place? A sort of muscle-memory whereabouts? You know, where certain objects serve as mental landmarks, and even their absence leaves behind incomplete representations of significance in one’s mind’s eye; like ghosts, mute and unmoving, staring back at us from the deepest recesses of our minds. I guess it’s good to be home. For now. I’ve clocked in about fifty thousand kilometres and, somehow, still want to keep going. The moment I arrive someplace, I am already dreaming of another destination, far away from a self that has become too comfortable with the harms of isolation and apathy.
A life devoid of romantic love and physical intimacy need not be resistant to the subtle beauty of what existence has to offer. Open-mindedness that stems from an appreciation for the fragility and impermanence of all things genuine, of all actions sincere, is a major component in enabling understanding which transcends (often) self-imposed cognitive restrictions. Imagination also plays a vital role, but I’d exercise caution. Some of us too readily content ourselves with high abstractions, while more and more future actions crowd our to-do lists. I fear I am not doing an effective job of explaining myself or my intentions. Perhaps it’s inexperience, or a lack of desire? When was the last time I was truly passionate about something? Like so many people at a busy crossing, half-baked thoughts and incomplete ideas flit across my attention, but for a moment, and are gone. At my worst, its all an incoherent blur; during rare moments of clarity – overgrown paths leading to informational dead ends. What remains is fatigue and an itch for distractions. Anything but this, anywhere but here. I’m struggling to put the phone down and it bothers me. It bothers me, the habitual skipping of chunks of time using what amounts to nothing more than mere digital murmurings, while reality gnaws away at my body with each corrupt DNA strand.
I’ve been glued to the screen for the past four hours, with the day outside presenting this two-dimensional dullness of a backdrop. Sure, if you look closely, you will notice shades of grey, just not as evocative of a sexual fantasy as you might imagine. And no, I haven’t read the book, nor seen the movies. I extrapolate things based on the covers. Yes, an exception I’ve gladly made. The sun is setting, yet the only thing that’s changed is the brightness of the grey sheet covering the sky. You can tell an ex-Soviet/Industrial town by its symmetrical architecture, the heavy use of concrete and steel. These choice-materials generate neither warmth nor add beauty to a nature currently in stasis. Naked branches shivering in the cold wind remind me of bony fingers outstretched towards a Heavens unmoved. If not for the occasional fir tree still dusted with snow like dandruff on someone’s dark t-shirt, you’ve only the cold to suggest we are in the latter part of a calendar year here on the Balkans. While my festive mood is at an all-time low, that doesn’t mean I am not excited in my own twisted little ways. After all, once Winter is in full swing, you know Spring will follow. Her currency of green replenished, Nature will shake itself off, perk up and swap the musky notes of slush, gasoline and coal for an earthy, herbal, flowery fragrance. If all is well, we’ll be here to enjoy all of that. And maybe even fall in love. Fall flat on our faces, some of us will.
Interpretation is attention’s shadow, made visible by the light of thought. Some of us cannot help ourselves. We have the space to ruminate, much of that non sequiturs and even outright gibberish. A dog thinking about chasing its tail even when standing still. Ask a catastrophist to practice mindfulness and this is what you get. Nevertheless, I implore you not to dwell on the negatives. My subjective perception of existence is significantly reshaped by a myriad physical and mental afflictions. Angels to some, demons to most. And yet, I persistently pursue avenues to be kinder to myself and to the people around me. Some days I feel like I couldn’t be farther from the truth, but I choose to believe that a dispassionate appraisal of my actions will dispel these burdensome doubts. What hope does to people, eh?
P.S. If you’re new to my blog, feel free to check the About Me section.
tsvetoslav shalev 
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