Rus Articles Journal

Where I?

Thousands of thin needles penetrate my unprotected skin. They get angrily, deeply, to the heart, inflicting on me physical and moral suffering - I do not know what is more, and remain in me, I do not know as for a long time. the Grown dumb fingers - icicles I touch

as if not the, weather-beaten face, I take on the hair which thinned, eternally beaten by a cap, empty eye-sockets, with all nevyplakanny tears, peering into others indifferent sky - a mirror which reflects a big piece of my present life: the small cold house, the wide, covered with a thick cover of snow field, foreign people going along a snow-covered field. But in this specular reflection I as I peer, cannot make out myself, probably, just because I am not there, I am absent I am not here.

And where I? Where I? Perhaps I in the near and remote past where my fingers were long and hot how at the pianist - the virtuoso where my person was fine, and people liked to look at it? They looked at my person, at my dense, touching strong shoulders blond hair, on my long slender fingers and joyfully laughed because it made them happy and they wanted to fly. Their eyes shone kindness and understanding, they loved me.

My eyes were bright and expressive, colors of a sea wave. In them was slightly a sneer and irony, but not evil irony, but kind, full love of irony to people, animals, houses, trees, flowers

my gait was easy and carefree as flight of an autumn leaf, borne an easy rush of young wind through the twilight thrown park. Steps - vozdushna as the shy moonlight falling through inflorescences of a white lilac in warm May evening, a voice - a call as the first shy peal of a bolt from the blue

Ya hasty I run in a door not of the cold house and hasty I slam behind myself not the heavy door. Then I heat not the old furnace and I fry potato which distracts me for some time from my gloomy thoughts. In the house it is awfully cold, and it very irritates me because I hate cold, and I should freeze almost all the time.

I take a notebook and I write nobody the necessary verses, long squeezeing out words and rhymes which first to me seem banal, then ingenious, then just good, and in the end I hate all this and I want to throw out simply in the furnace. Why I write them? To whom and what I want to prove? To whom is it necessary? Then I suddenly understand that I create them for myself that I have to write them only for myself, write extremely sincerely and frankly, without trying to be pleasant to someone, not to try to correspond to someone`s windy tastes and opinions, desires and templates, styles and currents, that betraying itself, the thoughts, the talent... And having understood all this, I feel that it becomes suddenly easier for me. I take the handle again and I write

my present - as this field powdered with snow. Dead, cold and unfriendly. All life left it, vysochitsya, turned into dead ice and snow. It had only memory, the bitter, eternally tormenting him memory of the days which left that once in it there was life, on it tart and fragrant herbs eared, over herbs hardworking bees curled, and loud-voiced larks were in the air. The cool rain refreshed its fertile soils, the warm sun warmed them gold beams, warm wind caressed it every evening. But all this in the past. And real

Real this my weather-beaten face, the fallen eye-sockets with the dead eyes looking as if in themselves, the grown dumb fingers - icicles, this others cold house, this others indifferent sky without sun signs this dead snow-covered field is. My present is a lonely naked willow at the chilled ravine, it is the zaindevely cold wood in a blue haze of ice morning, it is pack of the loud crows who are rushing about in the lead sky

Past and present. Present and past. Them. Another in to connect, not to join, not to pour in one in any way yet as ice and fire.