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When I want to talk to you.
I want you to ask: “What am I thinking about?”
About how easily and quickly years run, that everything is too near and close-close. About how little sincere joy and a lot of stone walls around. About gusts, about trust, which is either there or not. Or there is no such nature of things – trust. What is it?
Simple truths, words like a cover on the water surface. About what they no longer taught and why they did not teach. Painfully you understand that they also did not know what to teach and how to teach your children? About the sharp corners, leaving bruises in the soul, about safety. And in general, about whether it is? And what is this? When there is no war? When there is no betrayal? What is safety?
When there is a foothold or meaning? And when there is support and meaning, then what is your search for? How is it: just to live? Just to love? Just to work? And why do they succeed, but I do not? And all the time there is a spiral, the situations are repeated year after year, and you, like a schoolgirl who has not learned a lesson, you try again and again … And the situation returns, the exam is not passed, time after time …
And already swearing with the examiner, you try to write cheat sheets. You lift your head proudly, kneading your sore shoulders at night. You cut off your long hair, catching the wind on your top, put on blue mascara on the eyes … And nothing happens.
And you walk in a circle: who is that person who will give the answer? I ask, whisper that he will come, hug, and everything will fall into a place. But no one comes. New people come, new Teachers. You find the answers through them, but they, like naughty puzzles, do not add up to the general picture. And again, the same question: “What for?”
When you think about the fate of people, about what is friendship or help? How often do you help and do you really help, or do you admire yourself, your help … And why don’t those who fly to you for warmth say a word about you? And you think – I’m helping, and what for? Because I am good or want to be praised? Who needs it? Where are those dozens of people who were warmed up, waited a little bit and flew away by their own business?
How much has already been passed, and what a drop in the sea … A lot of people have passed, there is no person without a path … The feeling of lack of uniqueness is different, but the same as everyone. Every drop in the sea is not a drop at all, but a small part. Why this knowledge is sad, does not result in involvement in something big. Or the desire to stand out, create your own small island of security. Again, from whom? No one attacks but you yourself.
About how many books have been re-read and how few have been made sense from … Fragments, pieces of foreign worlds. Attempting to settle on these, alien shores, live someone else’s life, lean on … About the beauty of simple music and the gravity of complex verbal constructions, that we still hear only ourselves, through other people, we listen, we support dialogue, but still about ourselves, about you yourself…
About the unwillingness to follow the rules, about the implemented impulses, when everything is simple – I got up and went out, once, twice, third … And then, what is there? Who will support? Step – and emptiness. And you hold on to the illusion of a rescue rope, and he is in your hands tearing a string by a string …
About gusts, children, sincere and cliffs …
About the unwillingness to conflict, because you do not know how to defend yourself, about the general illusion of strength and about real weakness to a shiver in your knees And then suddenly, when you suddenly begin to feel this force, you still do not conflict, because you think about how fragile people are. You start to feel sorry for your offenders, seeing in them the weakness of other, very different people. And you think: “I’m strong, but they are not, God sees everything.” And they do not regret. And to the numb shoulders a pair of hatchets in the back is added.
About pain. When it really hurts. And you have no one to share it with. Words of even those who try to help, turn into confetti: bright, colorful, but made of paper. When it slowly, like poison, fills everything. And you can only watch it, it becomes harder to breathe, the brain slows down the analysis in order to have time to prepare. How often in these cases we say: “I do not fit in my head”. Yes, this is the very moment when nature slows down, slows down, prepares your heart to contain everything …
About acute tenderness to children, to tears. About the desire to hide, protect, keep …
About the desire to talk with you, rare meetings and lost ease in communication, as once in childhood, when there was someone to ask questions about who this is, Who?
About the fact that I feel you close, count those moments on my fingers. You are there! Sometimes in a dream I try to have time to ask my children’s questions: “Why? For what? Why now?”
Sometimes you answer: “That exactly the time has come, and that I am near, and that you can handle it”.
About this that after a month, six months, ten years, you realize that you have done it, and you, you are silent again.