Rus Articles Journal

It is sweet - the bitter loneliness of

ruthlessly condenses Winter December evening the sad gloomy water colors, beginning from light-gray half tones of the low lead sky which quickly pass into chernilno mourning shades of all world around. The world consisting of the gloomy ominously looming houses blocks which are rapaciously inclined along dirty roads by the hands - hooks of the ugly trees hobbling after the difficult working day with dead eye-sockets of phantoms - people.

Cemeterial night a black shroud embraces those who are still living as if the dead. Damp air is filled with myriads of sharp invisible glass needles which at each breath angrily pierce in the tired lungs and quickly in them are dissolved.

On the brown fields which are generously spread with autumn swill in the casual pool from dim light accidentally spilled by a languid lenivitsa - the moon, are seen fragmentary shreds lead from time to time - dirty cotton wool into which there is no wish to be stuck with a cheek joyfully to feel heat and cold at the same time. Neither winter, nor fall. And mood same - neither winter, nor fall.

B yet not cooled down house in a black hollow in the form of a boomerang a trifle is more cheerful. There waits for me a hot Ukrainian borsch, skvorchashchy fried eggs dinner with bacon and the burning coffee on one, and also after to it is red the old furnace, evening of deserved idleness and laziness on a high sofa in front of the antiquarian TV is heated. Or evening pleasant for mind and heart of epistolary work for same ancient, as well as the TV, the computer. Or, when there is no big hunting neither to the first, nor to the second, owing to the inevitable regularity, voyage on radio waves in search of reasonable, kind, eternal. Deservedly.

Is possible, for a change, and for calm still of the awake conscience, I will wash the dishes, either I will sweep a floor, or I will make still that is useful. However, all this is not obligatory. I can not do it, and nobody will reproach me with laziness and untidiness. Anybody.

In the house is warm. I switch off the bothered TV, I sit down on a chair, I draw in under myself on a habit the left leg and I listen. Only hours on a table are heard. A tic - so - a tic - so - a tic - so - the grumpy old man - an alarm clock gradually drops time drops in a non-existence. I represent myself hourglasses which of top half in lower grains of sand of my youth, forces, happiness inevitably run, turning into desert takyra of decrepitation, powerlessness and disappointment. Immemorial law of life and death. And to do nothing.

A of wons behind a window was zabrekhat by a dog, transferring loud bark to zaunyly howling in anywhere - just like that from there is nothing to do. Melancholic howl again turns into lazy bark, then again it is replaced by plaintive howl. It seems, all the time for chains is boring to sit. And it is cold, besides. Dog life.

A was accurately slashed here with headlights on the polished furnace tile by the car - a heavy truck. Has hard a fit of coughing, choked, vzrychat time, another also slowly spread away, piercing a road gloom with light of the yellow eyes.

Melancholy green Radio does not want to watch TV. To listen to laziness. Also it is not written. Eh! Melancholy because in this warm house from habitual native things, in the house of favourite books of Lermontov, Tsvetaeva and Salinger, in the house with red Ukrainian borsch and skvorchashchy fried eggs for dinner, any more you are not with bacon. And, probably, will never be

Ya I close an old creaking door on the lock. Slowly I go on kitchen, I wash and accurately I hang up on a hook a soft terry towel with a yellow ship on blue waves. Slowly I undress, accurately I put things at the warm furnace, I turn off the light in the room and I go to bed