Rus Articles Journal

Everything is sad...

All long Monday insufferably suffered from feeling of own uselessness, viscous futility and even times of the enraging nonsense of all around the events, full senselessness of those Sizifovy works which to me, gritting the teeth and being internally irritated, it is necessary to drag dragging as a millstone on a neck which is not necessary to you at all, but you cannot throw it, apparently, only to see low-happy views and the significant posapyvaniye of the administration which is giving rise in me to disgusting sticky sense of guilt.

Well that I for the person? Perfectly I understand everything: and the fact that I work not for the sake of someone`s foolish subjective approval not in order that I was indulgently patted shoulder and estimated on merits after stuck out own imaginary merits, and then, out of justice, and me, suddenly, did not forget - well all of them in an ass, these office buffoons, funnymen - self-educated persons with their flat as once virgin prairies of the State of Texas, humour, these talkative baby`s dummies, they to death bothered me, and are not found by me in myself at all, gramusechka of love to these brothers and the sisters though you burst but only irritation on all their empty vanity.

It seems to them that they are centers of the universe, creation wreaths that the main thing in life is success, money, career. To buy a cool wheelbarrow, even more abruptly, than from the neighbor, and then to arrive on it for work and to put directly under windows that all saw, to fall out from there on very tall a foot the turning-out hairpins with the fancy mobile phone at an ear which they and in a year will not understand, so, - and all watch, vylupiv round eyes, look and wildly envy, - that filched breath in a craw that persons became green with envy that shu - shu - shu along corridors, and views, views, views, and they do not go, and soar, nnutsya over the earth in warm streams of success, and angels, having been built in two ranks, blow to them in copper pipes, ah

They think, no, they are firmly convinced as if were born with it, - and you doubt, doubt always and everything, here, the idiot! - also bear this truth in life, sweeping away from a way a move any but and as etc., with foam at a mouth proving that without money you will not live that it is necessary to be beautiful as Anastasia Volochkova, successful as some Darya Dontsova, stylish as Nichole Kidman.

To live means to them constantly to stay in a tuft of alleged cares and problems. To live - means constantly to aspire to something, for a minute not to stop, even that to take breath, for example, to purchase of the new mobile phone, the twelfth pair of shoes which are not necessary at all - but, it is meaning of life! - abrupt wheelbarrow, eventually. To live - means constantly to puzzle that such brand new to bungle for dinner - the fuagra and an asparagus are very actual in this season, - to what new small restaurant to go, where to spend days off etc. Their life does not move, it rages, is in full swing, drenching with splashes of all around while you sit and consider crows - they are such clever birds.

What? You looked at stars yesterday? There is a nonsense! And they have no time. They have a great lot of cases. For example, to replace a toilet bowl. Or to look at the last " series; Beauty is not happiness . What? You are not interested in toilet bowls and series? And what then interests you? May wood?! Hmm Yes, it is quite good to leave for the weekend: both brochettes there, and vodka, and everything put

All road I, having got away in English from all only to be alone, and to pass the way of eight bus-stops and covered with black carrion crows of my thoughts, suffered from, frankly suicide in the beginning, then disturbing, and in the end as I approach green coast of the smooth water, lulling my troubles which from violently storming sea turn in quietly the murmuring streamlet, thoughts (what at me for a habit to stagger such verbal, like this offer?)

My God as everything is extremely sad in this world and it is senseless has no the end, began. Nothing makes sense in this world. And all empty.

The bird departed Swallow. She knows about life more, than I know with knowledge of several foreign languages and the university diploma. Without regrets and a remorse, the eternal truth, truth of life on this earth is opened for her born and dying at the sky. And me is not present. To me is not present, to the researcher and the expert superperson Nietzsche and pessimist Schopenhauer, to the author of social and scientific articles, thinker and philosopher.

It, the bird who is not knowing any letter, and even not able to speak knows that God is. And that It is love. And that any hair, any feather will not fall without his permission. I, than more read the Book of books and I visit church I doubt more and more. God, you is? - often I question. You are what? Old? With a beard? Man? And the woman can? White? And why not the Afro-American? Or yellow? Or pygmy? .

There lived on the island in the ocean the people. These people were very hardworking. There were both handicraftsmen, and grain-growers, and brave soldiers, and men of science there. In centuries these people built many majestic buildings, made many surprising discoveries. Also they worshipped gods. To god of the Sun. To god Vetra. To god of the Morning Dawn and Evening Cool. Men went shooting, women stored the center, these people more and more grew and developed. And these people were happy. And then the Big Thunder came. Also absorbed all to one. Neither men, nor women, nor children escaped. For what there lived these people? For what came to this world and so suddenly left it? What remained after them? - che - go to Spend

thirty best years - and on what - on studying of someone`s dead works, the most boring, killing pleasure of life and deforming your, still free and flexible brain, objects which never will be useful to you anywhere.

For years to force itself, without understanding that, to squeeze into a foolish framework someone once the thought-up standards of behavior, only in order that, at last, when you with such work pushed yourself into this dusty and zakloplenny case of someone`s subjective representations, to see as this cardboard box bursts on seams and falls to your legs the decayed lots.

To learn foreign languages which you so adored, and it was ready for any victims - seven years on one, five years on another, two years on the third, all only to understand that you hate the translations of technical and economic literature, - namely they also are demanded, - and that work in the specialty cannot almost be found and that you, in general, stopped loving reading books because it - always someone else`s thoughts in words - became boring, and your own thoughts it is much more interesting to you.

In a word, for years to pore over something that to you finally will become uninteresting and unnecessary neither you, nor a coma to another - unless it is not silly and sad at the same time?

I turn on the TV: Hundred most beautiful girls of the country will take part in a beauty contest with assistance of the " magazine; Glamour Kosmopolitan la - la - la Do not forget to take part in vote, dear TV viewers of la - la - la The winner will receive a crown with diamonds and sapphires, an award in hundred thousand tugriks and the permit in the most expensive hotel of Hkhkhlandiya of la - la - la no comment is silly and sad.

Television - in general a separate subject. However, as well as newspapers, magazines and other crap. The television is a garbage can, a cesspool with any notices, curve mirrors, any glamourous garbage, the distributor of extreme nonsense, arrogance, the activator of false aspirations, along with gluttony and alcoholism

killing in us a divine spark, distracting us from spiritual self-improvement and just intellectual development Series, games, even scientifically - popular programs - nonsense dog. They either are stupid and moronic, or dictate us one standard point of view, impose, force to feel us perverts and derelicts if we think a little, absolutely slightly - slightly, in a different way. We and want to apologize for the fact that our point of view, our attitude differs from standard " a little; All Estonians fascists. They profaned a monument to the Soviet soldiers in Tallinn . And 90% of the zombie accept this point of view. And does not come to their mind to switch off a box and to scatter a few that gray substance which is not controlled by public mass media yet and to ask itself the terrifying question: And suddenly Estonians not fascists, and? silly and sadly.

Advertising. How thinking and yet not zombie the individual all this can look moreover trust, admire TV? Unless child, teenager. But not the adult... silly and sadly.

Magazines? Newspapers? Junk. Without hesitation I would send 90% of all printing editions to a fire chamber. All these of Dasha Dontsova, Ustinova, Stivena Kingi, Akunin and others - waste of time. By the way, not my great thought. Esteem Strugatsky.

Master and Margarita - the cult book declare to us. Perhaps. And Bulgakov, probably, was not the fool. But not for me I mean that not cult. Read. Did not understand. Did not admire. From ten of my acquaintances at seven of whom the higher education, only two read this book. It was pleasant to one. To another is not present. Fools? Oh, yes! I prefer Shabby and New Precepts. Sometimes Chekhova. It is a little Gogol, Ostrovsky, Dostoyevsky, Bunin, Dickens, Thackeray, Shakespeare, Goethe, Heine, A. Dod, Russo, Shevchenko - read all this in the original, without the translation (for those whose just anger concerning my ignorance I expect, however, the ignorance it is ready to admit). Though these authors, except the first two books, - smaller of two evils. Such as they there was much, but the fate which later appeared for many the stepmother chose these.

Pushkin is the most great Russian poet. Really? As densely we were knocked it into the heads. Only who so unanimously established it? I do not know. However, the fact that it great - I do not argue. But to be pleasant to me more Lermontov though as just wrote. Or drunkard Yesenin. And who will be the greatest in hundred years? And through two hundred? As everything is sad in this world, misters.

Modern music - a crap. Everything was written long ago. Even with 6 classes of a piano I understand it. Evrovidiniyam to any, Saturday evenings (intentionally from a small letter) and t. d . I prefer game on a pipe or on a shepherd`s pipe. Or singing of the Caucasian mountaineers. Or Celtic ballads. Or Ukrainian songs. It is the live, loaded music going from an interior. Almost all the rest - shit. Mozart, by the way, too was a popsushnik for the time. Unlike Bach and Beethoven.

All this I to the fact that children, of course, try though not all. By the sweat of the brow register, will organize tour and other. It can be pleasant. It is possible to podrygatsya. But not to be necessary to create to itself idols. Beatles? Beatlemania? Be afraid of God! Listen, listen, if standing that, and forget. There are more important and interesting things in this world, including music.

tomorrow again for work Pieces of paper to move, before nachalnichka eyes to clap, by incredible efforts in the conditions of the most severe competition by all enterprise to make some pieces of iron which at most a years through two will break and years through ten in general will become outdated and will cease to be issued. To conduct important negotiations, to splash saliva, sticking out a breast forward, to kill with thousands the nervous cages, to run, fuss, quarrel, gossip, to pull out teeth holiday, to be indignant when it is necessary to leave on Saturday life, in a word.

, on the yard there is a Gipsy, an old bare cat. At it cares - to eat, get warm on the sun, in the March evenings to pay to cats attention. Other free time he reflects. About what? Of course about sense of life, about cat`s God, cat`s paradise and hell. His brain is 12 times less than mine and on light he lived three times less, but I feel that he knows much more about life, knows as everything is infinitely sad ]