Well, it started last Saturday and continued throughout the week, this bizarre sleepless adventure every night. I ventured into the state of my body with questions, why, why, what is going on, but it was impenetrable, impossible to hear any answers. There was, there is just a shield of exhaustion and some protective routines that my body was running not to enter sleep.

Surprisingly, I fell asleep, deep, fast(ish), and for the whole night on Thursday. I was amazed at the sleep like an event that I attended, trying to remember the details, but also how it felt altogether in its mass. Mass of sleep, soft body, having rested for many hours, body smiling with its organs, coming into awakening. Then I expected, wished that that would continue, this luxury of sleep but it stopped again. It was like I found the right piece of code that I lost right away and no other code fit to help me fall asleep.

Last night I took all kinds of supplements, all these 5 htp, melatonin, GABA (rhymes with Russian word zhaba), I was expecting to sleep but then I ended up rolling in my bed. There are three positions that I rotate from and to:
On my right side, on my back (with the pillow under my knees), on my left side.
The face flushing, the chest hurting, longing to be opened like a fruit with a seed that is getting too big, the heart palpation, throbbing seed-heart. I called the emergency health care line, went through a bunch of automated Finnish, guessed it to get to an actual person. Went to the all night hospital following the address they gave me in the center of Helsinki.

Taxi drivers that night want to talk. Driving through the night time Helsinki gives this an edge of adventure, something different, not the regular exhaustingly boring life alone, but actually going out, well, to a 24-hour emergency room. I sit in the empty hallway for two hours, I see two patients on the rolling beds, they are agitated, awake, not sleeping, like me. A young nurse in wool socks stands by the door, waits, looks at her phone. I imagine that they roll me on one of these beds, roll around, give me attention, give me an injection, dress me in the hospital gown, make me small, naked, and helpless, two, no, three of them stay next to me checking my vitals and guarding my chemical sleep. They don’t.
The only thing they did was give me pills, small beautifully perfect pills of the pastel violet color, they could have been earrings or a necklace, so tiny so amazingly flawless. I took one before the ride back and felt calm, felt that I could talk to the taxi driver about national sports of Pakistan, about life, normal life, I mean. He has been living in Finland for 11 years and has not learned much Finnish. He said he did not like it. I always ask if other foreigners here are trying to learn Finnish, perhaps, to assess my processes of learning by comparing with those of others. He did not have much contact with Finns, he said. Uber driving was more of a hobby for him, he slept throughout the whole day on Sunday and decided to do a taxi driving on Sunday night, because what else could he have been doing at night. Exactly, what else I could have been doing at night but riding a taxi through Helsinki as a fucking adventure of the year.

The unhappy transitions: San Francisco - Merihaka - hospital street in the center. What the fuck. Maybe this is my extreme form of dating, instead of spending time on flirting, having sex with someone, I roll in my three positions in bed for many hours before taking an expensive taxi to a hospital after midnight. Okay, I lost what I was thinking. I lost love. One thing that feels like love is those violet pills that I have. I have four. Of course, it is very tempting to take two each time, like I did last night and then sensed this fantastic departure elsewhere, in and out, in and out, until completely out. The radio, a podcast is there to indicate how much out is happening at that moment, do I remember anything said or is it a beautiful blankness - I don’t know it’s a word.

My chest pain is easing off, and I feel the body is picked up as a small heap of tiny pieces and carried away to be scattered, my ashes of the night, everything gets to be dispersed, even my chest and its pain, that motherfuckers cannot unionize and fight against this violet-induced great sleeping leap. My body does not belong to me or to my chest pain any longer, it belongs with the other scattered heaps of bodies, entering the violet pill sleep, submerging into small colorful balls full and crisp with chemicals - a ball bath. That is what is happening. I lost my limbs in this bath, I gave them away and they got fine chopped-chopped, made into small bath balls. Isn’t it a beautiful feeling? To lose my own body and mix up with every other body that is there, falling asleep at the same time. I don’t know where I went - there is no evidence in a dream form, there is no evidence but waking up as a long extended moment of time, a long orgasm of an hour, morning time, the sounds of living and doing bursting from everywhere but the veil of sleep is heavy, holding me in that bath, no no you won’t get out just yet, stay. And I am staying in this heavy sex with the violet, of course, the violet wants me to stay with them, it ate my chest out, my heart out, emptied me of my struggling organs, filled me up with the sleepy bath balls instead. I have no thoughts, I have no morning, I have no sounds, I became violet myself and that is a path to happiness. Cricket, the driver said, the colonial sport they made a national one in Pakistan. He did not say “colonial”, he said it was not historically traditional, and I added, a colonial sport, why did I do that. He said that field hockey was the traditional one. Like in Germany, they play it, like in other places too. I forgot what other places. I forgot what he said as a response to whether he played it himself. I forgot now. Maybe the violet started kicking in, maybe there was a language glitch. But he did not like chai, he said. We have one thing, one word in common with Russians, he said, the word is chai. But we, young people, do not like chai anymore, you go anywhere to any place and there is chai, chai, chai. This tea with spices and milk. I like to drink coffee, not chai. He didn’t ask why I was coming from the hospital at 2 in the morning. Well, I wouldn’t know how to respond anyway, so all good.
writing on IG as a form of writing

writing on IG as a form of writing
I am not able to complete the story
it goes unpublished
I am exhausted when I write one simple


there is nothing simple in it
Я провожу исследование
сверяю факты
иду в гугл
иду налить себе воды из под крана
мой телефон follows me
лежит в переднем кармане худи
пока не закончу пост
Так работает мое ассоциативное мышление
Остав-лю инстаграм на потом
Обессиленно опускаюсь на свой


90 сантиметров в ширину
матрас для тела
которое не может на нем раскидать себя
Пустое полотно
слишком узкое
чтобы на нем расписаться
закончить мысль
Невозможность создать сторис
в инстаграме
Если так, то получается слишком лично
А так слишком аффективно
А так слишком научно
А это звучит как манифест
А вот это вот редукция, агитация
Такое суждение слишком прямое
Нет, это очень абстрактно
Или очень пафосно
Я пишу голосом
Поэтические немного
Потому что в беседе с подругой Деей
Я могу себе это позволить
Она прослушает мое звуковое пока моет посуду на кухне

Я положил типун себе на язык, интересно, когда он растворится и какой будет эффект. Ведь я уже еле ворочаю языком, слишком медленно, чтобы сделать куннилингус, чтобы не остановится где-то в начале процесса запнувшись. Рот наполняется слюной и в нем размягчаются типун и язык, становятся одной кашей. Нет, я не смогу выразить свою мысль на сегодняшней презентации, я не смогу разделить, то, что склеилось. Одна спикерка говорит на четком финском английском, о том, как она училась в другой хорошей скандинавской стране и выучила новый язык быстро. Что сейчас она говорит на шести языках. О том, как не надо делать себе поблажек. Я верчу кончиком языка в месиве рта и пробую им зубы, боковые сточившиеся клыки. Я хочу укусить эту спикерку. Я кусаю себе язык.

Когда мы начали дружить, ты учила меня произносить длинное английское слово compartmentalize. Ты хотела уметь разделять все в жизни, чтобы оно не смешивалось. Чтобы никогда не делиться плохими новостями и запинаться одновременно. Ты хотела, чтобы твои подруги, твои бывшие и несостоявшиеся любовницы, тоже это умели. Могли бы сделать так языком, чтобы четко разделить каждый звук. Ком-парт-мен-та-лайз. Слово успешного человека. Каждый раз, когда мы встречались, я пытались вставить его в наш разговор, чтобы ты знала, что я практикуюсь, что у меня получается разделять все лучше и лучше. И сейчас, когда я произношу это слово, этот указатель на четкое разделение по частям, мой язык обычно не запинается, он двигается четко и хорошо исполняет эту заученную хореографию. Я иногда хочу тебе записать сообщение, чтобы ты знала, как я теперь умею.

В юношестве мы никак не могли поцеловаться, поэтому мы сели на станции метро Площадь 1905 года и доехали до Уралмаша. У станции мы подходили к прохожим взрослым мужчинам и засовывали язык им в ухо. Мы никак не могли заняться сексом, поэтому ты обменял билеты в Exit Theater на марки. Мы доехали до станции метро Montgomery, поднялись на верхний этаж отеля, положили марки на языки и долго ждали эффекта.

Я облизываю себя изнутри. Языком.
Даш Че

- квир персона, перформер_ка, танц художни_ца, начинающ_ая поэт_есса.

Живет и занимается искусством между тремя странами как может и порой не может.