Cypressionism

 

Cypressionism June 11, 2025

Childhood... ah... yeah. Childhood. I wouldn’t exactly want to go back there. Always with that hair sticking out like I’d been struck by lightning. Sometimes so thirsty and hungry I could’ve drunk the whole fountain in the park — pigeons and all. Hunger used to push me toward the bakery window, where the pastries smelled like magic, and my stomach growled like a broken radio. And my eyes — huge, like frisbees.

Who wants to go back to childhood? To feel all those dog bites again, cat scratches, falling from trees that brought no wisdom... just bruises and scabs. All those first fights, punches, sleepless nights waiting for a fight with someone who was usually bigger and stronger. Who wants to go back to the places of first heartbreaks, where my heart would sink — all because of those first loves that taught me how deep pain can go. Places where telling stories got you punished. Unless they were boring. And boredom is a lie — it doesn’t really exist.

Yeah... stupid childhood. Always with ripped pants and shoes that didn’t want to be tied. And those ugly glasses... no matter how many times I threw them or tore them off, they always came back. I hated them. And then school. Who in their right mind liked school? That screeching chalk on the board, magazines you didn’t subscribe to, and while others ate their sandwiches at lunch, I’d climb the cypresses. That’s how Cypressionism was born. Long before Impressionism, Expressionism, and all the other -isms. But of course, nobody cared. Just sports. And sports. And more sports.

And then all those weddings I’d watch and try to escape from — but with cake stuffed in my pockets. All that photographing, where I’d always look like a fool. Boring trips to church, bad singing, holding candles, collecting money... sometimes something would end up in my pocket — the only perk of those times when I accidentally became an altar boy.

Childhood... who wants to go back there? All that noise in your ears and buzzing in your head. All those ear tugs, pinches, slaps, kneeling in corners. And then they say: “I knelt on corn as a kid — what are you whining about, you had it easy.” All those moments when someone older made a fool out of you, and you were too small to do anything about it. If you hit them in the balls — you were done. But that’s all you had left.

All those punctured soccer balls, broken skateboards, torn ninja costumes made from black trash bags, all those bruises from badly made nunchucks. And yeah, they hurt. All those kicks to the head with a shoe in the morning when you just wanted to keep sleeping, and no rain, nowhere to hide. On the contrary — the big sun was grinning straight into your face.