𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏: 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬.
For some reason, when I was a child, I dreamed of things that are not common for a child: family, children, peace and comfort. When I grew up, I achieved something that not everyone can boast of, I became happy. No, I did not have a lot of money, as well as love adventures, in my windows did not smell a gorgeous view, we did not see luxury. I liked it, though. I liked to love alone, to wake up in a warm bed, to feel that you are alive, just alive. At any moment, any time, I could do what I planned, what I thought was right. Of all the things I did, I loved only one: that those I loved could do and have what they loved.
"Who are you?" the most interested readers will ask me. The answer is on the surface: one thing at a time.
Cold, rainy city N. It's gray here, though it's like looking at it: it always seemed that the color of the world around you depends on your mood. If you're not in a good mood, it's gloomy, people don't smile when they go about their business, the streetlights burn surprisingly dim, so you can go on ad infinitum. Suddenly, the sun came out from behind the clouds, your mood rose to unrecognizable heights - the planet shines with a bright palette of colors, passers-by, leisurely walking down the streets, smiling sweetly at you to meet, millions of lights flicker past your eyes, mesmerizing, like a child. Recently, I have been thinking about what beauty is for different types of people. In theory, it is possible that for some individuals this term can mean the very gray scale, described in a negative light. Maybe someone finds happiness walking along an endlessly long railroad track in a snowstorm, past churches, crosses and forests, shuffling his feet with his last strength. And that someone is me.
"Who am I?". The answer again lies on the surface: an average resident of N-sk, solving average problems, living the search for answers to average questions. The only thing that distinguishes me from statistics and other figures is my situation, in which I fell six months ago. People are used to blindly believing in miracles, not wanting to work with their heads; they smash their foreheads against the wall, looking for an opportunity, but can't see it - they squint in pain. Imagine, there's someone who eats soup with a fork! And that someone is not me.
I'm just a happy man.
𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐝.
A note marked:
"12.10.20XX.
"On all the paths I've traveled, where I've been and where I'll be tomorrow,
There's only one I've ever been to, where breakfast is cold again.
Where between the private roofs, the houses,
Dogs and gray fences,
You're standing in the second window, and I'm underneath it, the shutter clicks.
And I didn't believe in believing in God when I touched heaven,
The last thing I'll see is you with your big, sad eyes.
Like a volley, I'll be awakened by the trill
of the alarm clock on a cold night.
And I don't believe in God, I believe in you, that's for sure."
That year the "distressed piano" died out, to be more precise, nobody knew about its existence, and even more precisely, only those close to him guessed about it. No matter how interestingly the road turned, we took a hand and turned together with it, and no obstacles could change our direction. After some time I realized that we were not moving along a specific path with a specific goal, but were walking to the meeting only by inertia.
Snow drifted down on my hood. "It's a wonderful time to live in," I heard in my ears, and when I turned around, I didn't see anyone. So it was just me. Indeed, yesterday I was crossing the road and there was dry asphalt, but this morning it was as if everything had changed dramatically upside down. I don't know how long I stood there looking at the sky, but something pricked me in my heart, something made me walk straight ahead and that something was probably the photo inside my jacket.
Before changing from loneliness to lovely company and moving on to the final point of a long passage of my recent memories, it's worth emphasizing what I was pondering after all.
Domesticity, like coziness, is very much a bore. When you have everything, you want more until you lose everything. The future is actually tomorrow, how many times has that date become the word "today"? Always.
I always wanted to become not older but more mature, it was always good when this very snow, which knocked on my hat and turned into white paths with the help of a youth card of Sberbank, brought me back to the house, as if it demanded attention. He was walking, and only a few people walked along with him, but their footsteps were not inert at all.
The blizzard had swept me away. The wind was picking up, it was hard to breathe as well as see anything. "The blizzard.", it whispered to my left. "The blizzard...," I picked up on it.
𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘦𝘹𝘵 𝘤𝘶𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦.
𝖇𝖗𝖉