Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Essays. part-67

Sadness, cloudless days, when it comes into the window of your room. Your eyes still open, you can’t sleep, you can’t make anything, neither bad nor good… just look how the birds are flying, they are usual inhabitants in our city. In the streets where nobody cares for anybody You stand, near the supermarket, then go in, you want to find something special in it, there is all, but there’s no money in your old dusty packet. You feel nothing, you’re the same lonely student. I understand that planets are created for human; this beautiful galaxy, stars, earth, water, air, stones, meteorites, sun which doesn’t belong to us, houses, kind faces, November’s sun, energy, trees, flowers, sunny sides of the red brick walls, something great which is hidden inside the people, these are the powers! We say that we can love, but we can’t find each other when we‘re together. We don’t love one another, We cheat ourselves and ignore the answers. We love people only because of our material welfare and that we call love. We understand, but we look it from the outside and we elude, evade the truth which is inside us, but we always conceal this, because we believe that someone will lend a hand at the end of the wrong way, but you’re still charmed by these fascinating facades, main roads and cosmos… cosmos is a beautiful word, but we won’t believe it too. Now I’ll try to tell about myself, because I know that wrong ways which I had to pass, ways that I thought it before was true and only means of subsistence. It isn’t easy to talk about yourself and I always run away this echo when I write. These ways unfortunately appeared evil and if I didn’t passage I’d never know it anymore. Sometimes the way divides and you stop, you don’t know which way to go. When you look back, you see the old way was wrong, then you look down and stop forever. It’s getting dark on the crossroad and the wind starts to breath. 
 Pleasure, she said, again and again we went down the garden of dried lilies, red roses like veins on her white brow, black branches bowed over the gothic church. I remembered my little sister, we were in the county on holyday. She was playing with her friends, my father talked to my mother and we rested till the evening, later on I left the place and went to the city. It was nine p.m. when I came home. Me and my elder sister smoked cigarettes with black coffee and talked. After supper we watched TV and relaxed. She seemed very tired, then I told her a fairy tale. Happy she was to hear it. 
 No feelings to show, testify your experience. How well do you know society, terrible, satisfied nation or starving population, pseudoscientific conversations beyond the bookstalls, popular absurdity lives everywhere. How dangerous is when you walk down among the left objects? of course we have to live with it.
 It was Monday evening when I felt strange with mournful books. They’re human beings too, they’ve got soul, sorrowful reflections indeed. Trust me and give permission to books which are particular mates, inevitable sources for our abrupted brains. Well, I am in bed, opening, turn over the yellow page to torn page, then laughing so badly that I couldn’t realize what was the reason of my joy – Insects, red insects! – I said it loudly and started to eat papers, but no uncertain creatures, where they were? – Nowhere – I thought and began to eat the words of page sixty one, sixty two, three and etc. I watched something gigantic in my room and slept at once, but when I woke up I saw William Thackeray stood near the bookstand and smoked the pipe.

1 comment:

  1. This writing, it reminds me of some things I write. Of paths in my mind so shrouded in mystery, caused only by ourselves, the only way they can be tackled is to fight through them with words.

    You're writing is mesmerising. A depiction of the world, as well as your world.