Утро После (СИ)

She played the contrabass.

In the evening she used to undress, open her legs, and play. Her music blended with the stringy tail of woody fragrance and blew away into the dark space of the city. Nobody dared to reproach her. Everybody forgave, having seen her captivating shadow figure in the window.

III.

The time I`ve got acquainted with Joan, I felt blue. And vice versa. Feeling blue, sitting the vast august park, I caught her gaze.

- Do you like decadence?

- To tell the truth, not so much. It`s like a pill. You take it when you`re sick, and it tastes bitter in the mouth.

We laughed. We sat in the cafe.

IV.

Joan`s lips were hard and dry, they tasted like bitter chocolate with sea salt.

Sometimes I wanted to rip into them and sometimes just one sight of them made me sick - I was craving for some water...

She had only one man in her life - her contrabass. She shared him with me. In the dusty summer evenings, the contrabass sounds spread around the neighborhood as if rumbles of thunder. Sounds - drops, sounds - lightings were beating into the hearts, crushing the roofs. We did these natural disasters together. Together. Powerless and inexorably weak, we tore the chords.

Our silhouettes twitched convulsively, clearly distinguishable through the thin gossamer of white shades.

Joan`s wisps of hair strayed out of the bun, were clinging to her soaked face, to her pitchy eyebrows.

I liked to paint her. I drew her features on the margins of my notebook listening to the jejune lectures, in my note sitting in the bus, on the wet windows at home, on the wall when falling asleep... Standing down your windows, I could not help recognizing her back, the wisps of hair, her shape, and this oomph with which she was able to tear the chords.

V.

Pale morning scattered sea salt all over the seaside. Salty footprints. Salty tears. Colours...

I took my watercolours. I undressed. In my white dress I stood in the green sea and squeezed the red colour into the water. I felt joyful. Champagne of my soul petered out, failing to burst out to fill the cups of life.

Joan had always shared her contrabass with me. I had been always in love with her... Why should I be jealous?

2014 - 2017

His gaze is floured with soda...

His gaze is floured with soda. His words are like smoke of the cigarettes. His lips are dry and spicy -like cinnamon.

Great! He is just great!

No far-fetched arguments, sufferings, broken bloody hearts, no sleepless nights, no mawkish sentimentality - no feelings.

She tries to be like he is.

It just doesn't work. She feels her hands growing harder and drier, but she falls. It was just a dead branch of the tree, she held on to. She practices eye contact no longer. She suffocates with her silence. She swamps her feelings with everything what is able to kill them... She shivers, wrapping in the plaid and denies herself to weep herself out - she ought to be strong...

She cries of pain and with joy. She writes music and prose. She paints pictures. Often she laughs with contagious laughter and cuts her skin, trying to avoid emptiness in her heart. She loves light.

Her heart blazes with blood and fire. Her purity brakes against the white tile of the bathroom. She cannot live without him.

His gaze is floured with soda. His words are like smoke of the cigarettes. His lips are dry and spicy -like cinnamon.

Great! He is just great!

She is jealous of him, and often whispers in his ears: "Teach me to be like you are".

He laughs with his barbed short laughter, at the sound of which she feels uneasy, and replies - "You can`t".

She misses his hands, his lips, and his words awfully... But she forbade herself to give him this warmth. She wants to be just like he is...

When the night falls, he lies down to read the newspaper. And she lies beside him, exploring the features of his face. She misses his warmth and tenderness awfully...

She pillows her head on his chest and asks to be taught to this masculine obduracy... to this spicy and steady coldness, emitting the strength...

His incredulous, almost humiliating look. His dispassionate but scorching kiss - "As such?"

She turns to the wall. "Hit me" - pumps in her head. She awfully needs the pain, just because it is more or less acceptable for coldness and frigidity of the character, just because that is the only thing she allows to herself.

But he just leaves to have some wine... The tears are running across her face... She just does not know how to live....

2007 - 2017

The empty glass feeling

One of my favorite feelings is the feeling of an emptyglass. To be empty is the main condition of a thick glasstumbler.

If water stays in a glass for too long - the raid formsalong the water line.Tea and coffee fill such glasses in the train. You may fillsuch tumbler with the dirt or with the crushed stone - to use itas a measuring tool or to grow the seedlings. An empty glasshas larger potential, than a full one - filling may changethe glass mission for a long time; it may change the veryessence of a glass.

The water - suddenly poured out, drunk. Once thewater overfilled the glass. It did the glass heavy. Now the glassis empty again.

A glass filled by the rainwater.

A glass of water, drunk in the morning and then left in an empty flat.

Aclinking glass in a rumbling train. The teaspoon has been leftin it.

A glass, eager for filling and then fordepletion. The glass that is used to being filled and then depleted.

A glass that was created to be used for slaking thirst. The jar which the most part of time stays inemptiness. The jar of acceptance and of giving.

To speak symbolically, this thing is my closest soulmate. It is both firm and fragile. It can crack because of thedifference of temperatures...

However, it can endure a falling from the small height...

2017

The Universum

The thought experiment on Schrцdinger's cat, Pandora's Box myth and legend about the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil have much in common. It is known that by his experiment Schrцdinger wanted to show the imperfection of the quantum theory. The quantum theory, as considered, provides the basis of The Universe. As long as we don't open a box, we don't let the Knowledge out.

Schrцdinger's cat may be considered simultaneously both alive and dead. We can consider the evil, locked in the box presented by Zeus, existent and nonexistent at the same time. The person could have been considered simultaneously guilty and innocent, if he had not tasted the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil.

Well, if we had not tasted the fruit, we would not have learnt the limits of Good and Evil... Still is it possible that we would keep ourselves from temptation and passion in this case? Would we behave in a different way?

The animals know nothing about abstinence. Are the animals guilty? We forgive a little child his non-compliance of church fasting, foul language and masturbation. Actions fulfilled by children are unconscious. Is it something but The Knowledge that drives us into penance? It seems, these are we ourselves, who drew black and white boundaries, ensuring ourselves the hell with our own pangs of conscience.

The Schrцdinger's cat would have been simultaneously both alive and dead, as it had hardly eaten the forbidden fruit. It had never analyzed its life, as it has no consciousness. Thus, we also would never learn about its condition if we did not dance to the tune of our curiosity.