whatever

You…

-------

Half an hour before…

The door was locked as when I left, and when I came in, it was as if I was never away. Seven hours you’ve been sitting in the same place, probably left to go to the toilet once or twice, and the cup of coffee and the empty plate told me you had paid the kitchen one or two visits. The smell though, it told me it wasn’t to wash the dishes or anything of the sort. Paper sheets were lying all around, there were only a pair of scissors and a pen visible on the desk, all the rest was covered with paper.

- We have to talk – I said.

You looked at me as if I was interrupting the most important event in your life.

- I’m busy – you said. I opened the window to let the dirty New York air in, and it seemed to me as if it was the air on a midspring day in a cherry garden compared with the stank inside. It was summer and New York isn’t exactly the best place to spend it. If I hadn’t been tied up to my job I’d probably have taken you to the country for a couple of weeks, let you feel the nature, take you away of that wrecked piece of machinery you spent your days behind. I was starting to hate the thing, as if it had stolen you from me. But I should have known this was about to happen. We did, after all, meet online only two years ago, and it hadn’t gotten better since…

- Yes, since last Christmas – I said. – The thing is, I’m sick of it. I’m sick of it all, you need help. Sometimes I get the feeling you love that thing more than me!

You know I’m not a romantic. Never been, never will be. But a man, neglected because of a machine? I always knew that time would come, but I was hoping I’d never live to see it. And look at me now, I can’t even say the word. C-O-M-P-U-T-E-R. You don’t even throw a second look at me when I come home in the evening! And yes, I understand you are working, you need to make the research to write your next damned book… If they were worth it I’d probably be able to understand why you throw your life away for them, but they aren’t! No one wants to read the things, not even me, not even you. So why bother? I have been asking myself this for quite some time and I still don’t know. And I didn’t know back then, so I asked you.

- Because… What else would I do with myself?

Then you looked down to the thing and you went on typing whatever you were typing when I came in. I looked at you for some time, then I got to the bedroom, took my stuff and went for the door. Then I hesitated. The wrecked thing was mine. I turned back, came closer to you and told you so. You said it was yours now, because it had become your life or something like that. I didn’t listen, I was too angry to listen to that kind of bullshit. You took two years of my life, and the only thing I could do to make you suffer was to take that machine with me wherever I was going, and throw it in a container around the building as a used gun. Because I knew taking it would probably kill you, as it contained your whole work, your whole life.

So I bend over you and took the thing out of your hands. The stupidest thing I’ve ever done. You looked at me, then you looked at your free hands, then you looked at the computer. The next thing I knew, a piece of metal was getting deeper and deeper in my stomach. There was a moment of pain, then it became so bad I stopped feeling it. It was like a dream, I let go of the computer, saw you taking it and then I fell backwards. I hit my back on the chair next to the coffee table, then I lay there and didn’t move except for the trembling of my hands holding the scissors. I looked down at them, saw the blood and wanted to throw up, so I decided looking at you would give me less problems. It didn’t. It was worse. You were sitting there, you still are, and you were typing something. I tried to say something, but when I felt my mouth full with blood I decided it wasn’t that smart, and I was done doing stupid things in this life, so I shut it again. I just lay there looking at you until I felt so tired I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I closed them, partly because I thought I wouldn’t want to creep anyone out (isn’t this the worse part of every criminal movie? the dead body with the open eyes, looking at it’s killer?)

Then I saw the tunnel with the light at the end and for some reason I thought of flamethrowers. Then it was dark for a very long time, and then I saw the tunnel again, but somehow the other way round. When I woke up, I saw the nice face of a blond nurse looking down at me and I thought I wasn’t in heaven, cause otherwise she wouldn’t be wearing so much cloths.

------

You won’t be able to read this, although I’m blogging it. The thing is, you are dead now. Too bad, so sad, blabla. I don’t give a rats ass actually. I did love you in a way, but you did try to kill me, and this tends to work as a fire extinguisher even for the strongest love, and mine was more like a candle than a fire. The funny thing is, you died because before I almost died I unplugged your damn laptop and as the battery was long gone, you lost all your work.

Funny thing is, if you hadn’t taken those scissors out of my body to put them in your own, I’d been dead now. But should I say thank you? Or should I hate you?

I’ll put up with “rest in peace” and do make sure you never come back, please…

fears

In fact I don’t know how to start this thing. Not only that, I don’t know what to write at all. Ideas have been floating around in the space of my head, not willing to be captured and put on paper… metaphorically spoken. So I just will put down everything that comes to the tops of my fingers and I’ll hope to find out the truth my subconscious is trying to sell to me.

Darkness was filling the space around. All noises seemed less sharp, as if my head was under water. My hand touched something sharp and I felt warm blood going down my elbow. Than something caught my neck and pulled me out. Light poured into my eyes when I opened them and saw the worried face in front of me, first as a blurb and than sharper.

-Finally – it said. – You’re on. Damn, I was worried.

Then John, my older brother, gave me a knock on my shoulder and went away to his desk.

-You were screaming, you know. – he said. – I thought you couldn’t breathe because of the blanket or something, but when I came to you, you seemed all right.

-I had a nightmare – I said, my voice low.

-Yeah, I figured that out – John laughed.

He didn’t say anything on the matter any more. I suppose he figured I wasn’t particularly proud of it, being youngest and the only girl in the family and having those nightmares, too. The last were also the reason to be afraid to go out in the evenings and those didn’t let me go near horses, and that’s all our family is doing to put food on the table.

We live in a farm in the south west of Indiana. Horses are our lives in all possible meanings: we use them for food, often clothing and we sell them to get all the rest we need to survive. But they are also our only friends apart for the family.

Some time ago I started having those nightmares and fears, which made me quite hard to talk to and on a certain point I wouldn’t want to come out of my room (which I share with my oldest brother). When I moved in the room, I would keep my back on the wall, because I was convinced there was always someone or something behind my back. Days after days I stayed there, letting only John in, trembling all the time, believing there was something under my bed or in the wardrobe. Oh, I forgot. I was at the age of twelve back then.

All started with an old lady who came to the farm when I was a child. I was very young so I don’t remember her very well, but I heard the stories when it all began. My mother told me she was quite old, with silver hair and, as it seemed from her jewelry and clothes, quite rich. She came to the farm to arrange a horse for the daughter of her nephew because as she didn’t have children on her own, she took care of her. She spoke to my mother about nothing but horses and children, but when she saw me, I was about three than, she couldn’t say a word for some time, my mother says. Than she proposed to buy me, to give my family every comfort they needed, and in exchange to take me with her and to take care of me.

My mother, of course, refused, even thought some of my brothers, back then already old enough to judge, thought otherwise and tried to sell me without the knowledge of my parents. As it didn’t work out, my family stayed whole and poor.

But the women was very angry and my mother said she cursed me to be always unhappy. Fear is the worse thing that can happen to anyone, so probably her curse succeeded… or more probably I’m afraid because my brothers put me in a bag on the back of a horse to get me to her and the experience was so bad that I started having nightmares. Anyway, it might have nothing to do with what happened to me back then, who knows.

The thing is, my nightmares got more and more, all with the same idea in the background of dying in an enclosed space, choking or something like that. John says I often scream while sleeping, even thought I never scream in the dream itself. My dear brother, I’ve often scared him to death with my screams, especially at the beginning he didn’t know what to do, afraid to wake me, but unable to listen to me suffering that way… Later on he learned that waking me always works and isn’t dangerous at all.

It went worse and worse, and when I refused to go out of the room, my parents got really worried. It is one thing, they said, to scream every night and completely different to stay closed, not to live. Later on my father used the word ‘dead’, when he spoke about me. ‘The dead one’, although I still screamed far too often for a dead body.

So they started looking for help. Every now and then they brought a doctor in my room, explaining him the problem and they examined me, looked up down my through, in my ears, in my eyes, just to say there was nothing wrong with me, than talked to me about my fears, about my life and came to the same conclusion: except the fear there was nothing wrong. Perhaps that’s why my mum supposed it was the curse of the old lady: there’s no medical explanation to those kind of stuff.

Life went on in the farm interrupted only by more and more important looking people coming down to the farm to check on me only to find out ‘there was nothing wrong with the child’, while I spent the passing weeks in the corner of my room with something heavy next to my hand, ready to use if someone or something tries to put my head in a bag.

On a certain point my father couldn’t take it any more. It was quite hard for him as we had a special relationship due to the fact I was the only girl. We often went to fish together, we rode long to search for a mustang herd when the young horses were ready to leave their mothers… Just as I would be some day, my father always said. We often worked together in the fields, he taught me to train horses and to communicate with them. He wasn’t one of the so called Horse Whisperers, because he never claimed to be that good in what he was doing, but I believe he was better than most of them, because he really spoke to the animals, thought I never heard a word.

He came into my room, John behind him, and said to me:

- Ok, it’s time to get you out of here.

He didn’t ask anything, he just told me what was going to happen and in a way that helped me get ready for it. I won’t say I didn’t scream, bite and hit him all the way to the manege. There stood, apparently waiting for me, the most beautiful animal I had ever seen. It was a bay mare, about three years old, as I thought when I saw her. Her legs were perfectly formed, her head stood high and her neck was so elegant that for a second I forgot all my fears. Just for a second. At the next one I was screaming again, till I heard my father’s voice, screaming back, that the animal behind the fence was mine. At that I stood still once more, for a little longer, and than started kicking and biting, because the fear I felt wasn’t something you could bargain. My father and my brother took me with a great effort to the manege and left me there. At first I didn’t move at all, scared to death, angry, not knowing why they were doing it. Then I tried to get out. It was not until then that I realized there was something different about the fence of the manege: it was not only the good old wooden fence, but there was also wire-netting of about two meters height. As I looked at it I realized I’d never be able to get out of there on my own.

I stood there, my back on the wooden fence, my hands behind it, my legs ready to run, my eyes fixes on the animal in front of me. I knew she was young and quite as scared as myself. She was clearly just caught, never seen a rein, nor a saddle. As I thought of it I felt strangely good: the horse I was trapped together with felt the same as I did, but the other way round.

I stayed there for hours, which grew in days. My father came around every now and then to bring us food and water which we didn’t touch till he was gone out of the eye-sight. Then, with my back towards the fence, I went very, very slowly to what he had brought and ate it very,very fast as if I was afraid that someone might appear and steal  it… I actually was. The mare did exactly the same, but with much more noises and running around: stuff I was too afraid to do.

I have no idea how long we acted like that. I was scared at days and at nights I couldn’t move from my place and I couldn’t even think about sleeping. There were moments in the nights when I was… away, because it wasn’t sleeping. It was just a way to gain energy, because energy was what I needed. Those moments were what kept me moving in the days.

After some time the mare showed some interest in me. I couldn’t tell who was more afraid when she came to sniff me, but I do believe it was me, because she did, after all, come, while I stayed there, my back on the fence, eyes pointed in her eyes, fingers terribly shaking with fear. Then, when she came, we both stood still for a second, both ready to run away, thought there wasn’t much choice as it comes to where. Both breathing heavily, her warm nose next to my cheek… Then very, very slowly I touched it with my right hand. We stood like that for a second or two, then she was gone.

After that she didn’t come to me for days. I wanted her to, that touch had turned something in me. I knew she was scared and I knew that somehow we could help each other. But she didn’t dare and I didn’t, either. Fear has it’s own ways, but they are all alike.

My father was coming every day now. He didn’t touch any of us, didn’t bring anyone along when he came to see us. Sometimes we would speak a little, he would tell me my mother and my brothers were doing ok, or he had bought a new mare or a stallion. I didn’t speak a lot. I wasn’t angry with him for doing with me what he did, leaving me like that outside with a wild horse, cause I knew very well what he wanted me to do, but I just couldn’t speak a lot. And didn’t have much to say. What was happening with me was too personal and in a farm like ours you try to keep your territory since you are born… and then keep doing it whatsoever. But I told him I was ok, I did every time. Because I actually was ok, I was doing much better now than any second I spent in my room, expecting something horrible to happen. I was breathing fresh air, touching the grass (sometimes chewing it as there was nothing else to spent my time with), thinking of something different but all those things that would happen if I’d close my eyes. I wanted to touch the mare again, to hug her, to make her trust me. She needed it and I was going to give it to her, because I needed it, too.

Day after day I was coming closer and closer, at first letting her sniff me and leaving, later on touching her nose and face. I sometimes would sit in the middle of the arena, hugging my knees and I would wait for her to come to me to see what I was doing. At the beginning I was still afraid, so I did that only when my dad was behind me and the mare – in front of me. Only then I felt safe, more or less, thought I couldn’t stay for long like that. My father never said anything about what I was doing. He knew the ways of the horses and he knew every man has it’s own way with them. To train a good horse you need to gain his trust. Some would first ‘brake’ the animal, others would just wait. The second way would always cost much less energy and would deliver much more profit.

So I waited and waited, first, as I said, with my father around, but later on, little by little, I gained courage to sit in the middle of the arena even without him. The mare would come to me and sniff me and that made my day. Then I started giving her something nice, an apple or a lump of sugar for instance. She would take them very carefully of my hand and would run to her side of the arena.

And so on for days, maybe weeks, I don’t know. It doesn’t really matter, thought. It was later summer, right before the rain started, so it was just wonderful to sleep outside under the stars, to eat in the shadow of the tree next to the arena and to watch that beautiful animal walk around, growing confidence, growing trust in me. I didn’t mind being alone, I’ve always been a bit of a loner really. And I wasn’t really alone, the mare was there and my father came every day, too. On a day she came to me and let me touch her head, her neck. When I touched her stomach she only made a strange sound, but didn’t move. After that she never really ran away from me any more, thought she did stay in her corner when my dad came to see us. Soon I showed her she shouldn’t fear him: he came in and I asked her to let him touch her nose. I didn’t ever speak to her. I just showed her gently what I wanted but I never pushed: I knew her fear, I knew greater fear than hers. Because I was afraid of everything I knew, while she was just afraid, because she didn’t know anything of what she saw around herself.

Still, my father wouldn’t let us out of the arena. I was angry with him, because we were doing good, both of us. I wanted to let the mare see the other horses so that she wouldn’t grow afraid of them, but my father never really let me speak of the matter. Then I didn’t know, but now I know he was convinced there was something I had to do, or I would become the same person that went in that arena. I had to go out myself. So I did one day. We had had lunch, me and the mare, and we were lying under the tree, while I got it. Not why we were staying in there, but how we could get out. It was quite easy, really. But I had to ride on the mare’s back, something I had never done before. As she was lying, I turned around and touched her back. She didn’t mind: my own back had been on hers till now, so why would she. So I put my right leg over her body and sat gently on her back. She didn’t move, but I had her attention. I touched her neck and her back to make her feel comfortable: she already trusted me, she just didn’t know what I expected of her. Still soon she stood up. She made a couple of steps, while I touched her stomach with my heels. A couple of days later I could make her do anything for me. And I knew exactly what I wanted from her, I only wasn’t sure how I would do it.

A couple of days later my father came around lunch and told me my brother John was in a hospital. He had broken his leg in the morning, while helping my dad with a young stallion. John was never very good with horses. Back in the time we were small kids we used to run around the whole farm, but he never dared to go to the stables without my father. I on the other hand used to fall asleep between the legs of the horses and it was always easy to find me: I used to spend all my time up there with the horses.

My dad said he was doing ok and he would be on his feet in no time. However, I could see in his face that he wasn’t so sure. Fear was dropping of his eyes and his hands were trembling. I wanted to go and hug him, but, of course, there was still the fence. As I already knew how to get out of the arena, I just did it: I jumped on the mares back, made her go to the fence and climbed on it. In a couple of seconds I was on the other side. Before going to my father, who was staring astonished at me and the mare, I opened the door for her. She came out and stayed right behind me.

- Good job with her – my father said, when he released me from his hug.

- Thank you, I’ve learned from the best – and I winked. 

.

It's again the darkness I am looking in the eye
The kind I thought I'd forever left behind...

But when the light is gone
there's only one thing left:
this most important thing is never to forget
that there's been light to go away
and there will be again...

Innocent
We are born
Tender is our skin as well as our soul.
We then see the world,
and to survive,
we change.

Revolting
we grow.
Rough becomes our skin as well as our soul
while we live in this world.
And we forget
that there's a fifth dimension...

Unforgiven
we die,
because who else can forgive us
but we ourselves

Or maybe...
Maybe we see the world
and realize
that we need each other
to survive
to save our souls
to forgive ourselves...

And then:

Innocent
We are born
Tender is our skin as well as our soul
We then see the world
and realize that we need each other
to survive

Faithful
we grow,
rough becomes our skin but not our soul
while we live in this world.
And we rediscover
the fifth dimension...

Peaceful
we die
because we have been forgiven
our sins

Мистерия 9

Така значи. В градът се вилнее същество от източноевропейската митология, което уби двама граждани, без дори да е изцапало белите си зъбки с кръв... Каква ли друга измет се разхождаше наоколо?’

‘Хмм.’ След като осъзнах какво си мисля, реших да се поправя: ‘вилнее’ определено не беше точното определение. Освен това ‘бели’ също не е подходящо, защото нямам никакви доказателства за това.

‘Втори дубъл: значи в моят град се разхожда същество, което има по-добро оръжие от всеки нож, най-малкото защото не можеш да му го отнемеш... и какво още? Аха... Нужна ми е информация.’

Нямаше смисъл да се опитвам да търся книги с митове в личната си библиотека: върху двата равта с по пет книги на кръст със сигурност не присъстваше такова нещо. Затова отново облякох изстрадалото си сако и се отправих към градската библиотека.

Която пък отваря в 7 сутринта. По дяволите! Едва пет! С какво бих могъл да запълня следващите два часа? Или по-скоро къде, ‘какво’ бе общо взето ясно със случай като този.

Пред библиотеката имаше кафене, което изглежда си знаеше интереса и държеше по една-две маси винаги на разположение на клиенти като мен. Макар че като се замисля, не ми е ясно колко точно са наистина верните читатели, които се събуждат посред нощ и веднага отиват в библиотеката, за да я открият затворена, и които с ентусиазъм несломим дори от подобно нечувано деяние като затварянето на библиотеката, сядат да изпият по едно кафе, докато чакат злото да бъде поправено.

Избрах масата до прозореца. Докато сядах си помислих как професията се просмуква под кожата, та чак до костите: ченгето винаги наблюдава всичко, но най-вече улицата. Тя е неговото царство, което трябва да пази, понякога с живота си.

Поръчах си поредното силно кафе. Колко ли бях изпил за последното денонощие? Бях им изгубил бройката. Кафето действа на мозъка по два възможни начина: или му помага да функционира по-добре, или прави така, че доброто му функциониране да е последна грижа на собственика му (също както алкохола и цигарите впрочем).

Огледах малкото помещение. Тук бяхме само аз и собственика, който изглеждаше така, сякаш сам би могъл да използва малко кафе: цвета на кожата под очите му навеждаше на абсурдната мисъл, че сигурно страда от безсъние вече поне хилядолетие. Ръката му трепереше, когато остави чашата пред мен, но погледът му не трепна. Предположих, че не би го сторил дори пред него да се развиват военните действия на три батальона човекоядни мухи-гиганти. Нещо, което и мен не би впечатлило особено точно в момента. В края на краищата, щом един мит се окаже истина, просто въпрос на време е светът да докаже, че въобще не е това, което хората си мислят, че е.

Отпих от кафето, след това се загледах в чашата: след една глътка бе вече наполовина празна. Защо ли ги правят толкова малки? Повечето хора, които пият кафе по това време на денонощието или вече страдат от сериозно безсъние, или искат да се събудят хубавичко за някакво свое важно дело. И в двата случая им е нужно или поне не би им попречило едно голямо, силно кафе. Не три капки в миниатюрна чашка и с миниатюрна бисквитка.

По дяволите, отново се отвлякох. Ето ти пак полицайщината: оплаквам се от кафето, от детайла, докато картината пред мен изобразява кърваво убийство.

Върколак... интересно. Като малък обичах фантастика, но предпочитах вампирите, защото бяха по-подходящи за злодеи: не виждах нищо страшно в топка козина. Но в някои книги се твърдеше, че се преобразяват само по пълнолуние и тогава се превръщат в гадни зверове. Малко вероятно, като се вземат предвид последните събития: ако има върколак в града и той нападне каквото и да било в този град, аз ще бъда първият, който ще топне пръст в кръвта на жертвата. Не. Значи има нещо друго.

Вълци и хора, хора и вълци... ако върколаците са просто кръстоска между човек и вълк, значи единственият проблем, който биха представлявали за обществото, би бил на избори: все пак представата за лидер на вълците е доста по-различна. Е, очевидно и шофирането би могло да се окаже малка пречка... но иначе? Вълците не нападат хора, освен ако това не е последният им шанс да оцелеят. Всеизвестен факт. Градът, от своя страна, предлага огромен избор за оцеляване. Та тук съществува съвсем успешно цяла невидима глутница лисици, за която повечето хора не са и чували! Не. Ако върколаците са просто хора-вълци, не би имало никакъв проблем... освен когато седнат зад волана. Вълците не са по-опасни от който и да е човек, а зъбите- от който и да е нож...

Значи същество, което се превръща във вълк, но мисли като човек? Е, почти. Предполагам, че ако имаш сетивата на вълк имаш и доста по-голяма възможност да разбереш света... Интересно. Нищо чудно, че се крият. Ако имаш такова знание, такива възможности... е, хората стават любопитни. А след това завистливи. Вероятно шансът за оцеляване е колкото в месомелачка, докато героят, който трябва да те спаси, се е натряскал като свиня и няма невероятната способност да изтрезнее моментално, щом чуе писъка...

Погледнах си часовника. 5:45. Ето, че библиотеката отново свърши работа. Понякога се чудя дали самото присъствие на толкова много книги не се просмуква някакси в мозъка... от друга страна това би означавало, че библиотекарите или са скрити гении (което се връзва: никой истински гений не би се показал пред хората, следвайки същия принцип като върколаците), или са имунни към знанието (което също е много възможно, повечето хора са).

Три кафета. Бях изпил три кафета, а не си спомнях нито съдържателя да ми ги е носил, нито как съм ги пил. Бях прекарал 45 минути затворен в собствената си глава: нещо немислимо за едно ченге. Ченгето наблюдава. Едновременно с това обмисля и анализира наблюдаваното, какво и всичко, което е наблюдавало в миналото, но никога, нито за миг не спира да попива света. Така се умира и всяко уважаващо себе си ченге го знае... или не оцелява. Мамка му. Остарявам.

Станах, платих и благодарих на съдържателя за хубавото кафе. Наистина бе хубаво: малко, но силно и ароматно. След това излязох в студения утринен въздух.

Замислих се за съдбата на съществото, което гонех. Въпреки, че моята работа свършва, щом ги хвана, аз винаги наблюдавам следващите събития в живота на престъпниците (или заподозрените в престъпление; животът е недправедлив, понякога така става).

Какво ли щяха да направят с него? Вероятно да го заключат в някое подземие заедно с лабораторните плъхове, които ще го разгледат от всички страни, и щом не намерят тиктакането по лесния начин, ще го разглобят и ще търсят по трудния.

Затворът не беше решение: или щяха да го убият от страх, или от гняв; превръщането във вълк веднъж месечно не е нещо, което можеш да скриеш в сграда, в която броят на решетките надвишава сериозно броят на стените.

Що се отнася до лудница... та съществото не бе лудо! То вероятно дори не бе виновно за сблъсъка. Само много извратен ум би могъл да предизвика катастрофа като тази само за забавление, а на мен ми се струва, че това нещо е съвсем разумно. Всъщност щом е оцеляло до възраст, в която може да кара кола, значи е доста по-разумно от средностатистическия човек.

Смъртта

В един свят, в който смъртта се счита за най-голямото зло, аз се опитвам да живея с вярата, че сънищата са една друга реалност, а мечтите се сбъдват. Що за луда трвбва съм?

И за да отговоря, ще започна отзад напред.

Страхът от смъртта е най-ирационалното нещо, което може да съществува. Толкова ирационално, че нападнало в гръб и убило рационалността, заемайки нейното място.

Няма нищо, наистина нищо по-естествено от смъртта. С думата ‘живот’ върви думата ‘смърт’. Със самият акт на живеене, човек се обрича на смърт. Не само това: животът сам по себе си може да бъде наречен бавна смърт, защото той е тъкмо това.

Ето защо е толкова странно: човек, който се страхува от смъртта, всъщност се страхува да живее. Защото животът, това е смърт. Но и обратното важи: смъртта, това е живот. По един или друг начин. Следователно хораат, които се страхуват да умрат, са ирационални. По-ирационални, отколкото бих могла да си представя, искрено казано. Всъщност умът ми дотолкова не го побира, че отказва да го приеме.

Както и да е. Да се страхуваш от смъртта в този свят е нещо повече от естествено за повечето хора. Те действат, водени от този страх. С цялото си сърце и душа са се вкопчили в това, което наричат живот, а всъщност не е нищо повече от съществуване. И се борят за него. И не искат и да чуят за мечти, защото преследването на мечтите означава рискове. Но какво е рискът? Какво може да рискува един обикновен човек? Пари? Докато си жив имат смисъл, но все още никой не е успял да ги вземе със себе си след това (неколцина са успели да ги погребат със себе си…). Щастие? Какво щастие би могло да съществува, ако човек не преследва мечтите си? Любов? Що за любов би изпитвал някой, който не би дал всичко за любимия човек?

С други думи, страхът от смъртта пречи на хората да рискуват, тоест да преследват мечтите си. Къде е смисълът тогава? Този въпрос явно си задават и много други хора, защото употребата на алкохол, наркотици, антидепресанти и шоколад се покачва с всяка секунда. И, колкото и да е странно, броят на самоубийствата.

И тук идва моментът, когато ще докажа колко ирационални са всъщност хората:

Страхът от смъртта води до празно съществуване, избягване на всякакви рискове. Последстието: животът губи смисъл. Крайният резултат е самоубийство. Кой е луд сега?

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Въпреки, че не е особено добре представена, идеята ми е сравнително ясна. Върти се из главата ми от доста време, но едва сега успях да я облека в думи. Обещавам да редактирам, когато имам време.

Постът бе написан благодарение на Casey Blackheart.

the difference

Гората бе тиха и спокойна, чуваха се само звуците на нежно падащи листа. Нощните животни се движеха толкова внимателно, че стъпките им звучаха като въздишки навсякъде наоколо.
Само на едно място не пристъпваха, сякаш се страхуваха да не пробудят спящото там дете. Тишината не се нарушаваше от нищо, освен от дишането му. То се обърна в съня си и промърмори нещо далечно. Нощта напредваше.
Под падналото дърво се бе образувала топла хралупа, пълна с борови иглички. Миризмата им се просмукваше и изпълваше въздуха с тежкото спокойствие на гората.
Детето се събуди. Бе около тригодишно, дребно за възрастта си. Бледото му личице изглеждаше още по-болнаво, понеже още не се бе отърсило от съня. Издаде тих хленч, на който нямаше кой да отговори. Потърка очи. Русата му коса, подчертаваща бледостта му, отрази лунната свелтина, когато то излезе от хралупата. Приличаше по-скоро на призрак, отколкото на дете от плът и кръв.
Облечено в парцаливи дрешки, едва стигащи до лактите му, то лазеше покрай старото дърво. Грубата кора израни нежната бебешка кожа, то се спря и заплака.
Нарушена по толкова груб начин, доскорошната тишина бързо напусна гората, заместена от звуците на изплашени сови. Тъмнината обаче остана, карайки детето да заплаче още по-силно. Гората зашумя в отговор.
После звуците замлъкнаха така рязко, както се бяха появили. Само детето продължи да хленчи известно време, докато не усети промяната.
Те се бяха появили. Нямаше как да не се появят, разбира се, това бе тяхната гора, те бяха нейните владетели и като такива бяха длъжни да се грижат за нея.
Пристъпваха безшумно, с муцуни, ниско до земята и настръхнала козина. Напред вървеше дребен мъжкар с изцяло черна козина, без нито един светъл косъм. Движеше се бързо и грациозно, с наострени уши, дългата му опашка метеше земята. Душеше въздуха бързо, на пресекулки.
Зад него имаше други двама, по-едри, следвани от женска. Нейната козина бе черна, но с жълти петна, сякаш вечно огрявана от слънчеви лъчи, проникващи между листата на дърветата. Тя изглеждаше неспокойна, често обръщаше глава, сякаш смяташе, че някой я преследва.
Спряха се при хралупата, където не се забавиха повече от секунда, а после се отправиха право към детето, което бе седнало на земята и ги гледаше с вдигнати вежди. Приближиха се предпазливо, ала то не помръдваше, омаяно от блясъка на козината им.
Когато дребният мъжкар начело се приближи достатъчно, детето протегна пухкави ръчички, една от които червенееше от кръв. Той се изплаши и се дръпна, издавайки звук, подобен на лай. Детето продължаваше да го гледа удивено, ръчичките му високо вдигнати. Той се приближи отново, този път по-бавно. Детето замахна и го удари по носа, след което се разсмя: вече не бе само в тъмното.
Другите също се приближиха. Детето се смееше, размахваше ръчички, а когато женската се наведе да го подуши, то я прегърна през врата. Тя се уплаши, но не помръдна. После, поенже то не я пусна, тя се изправи внимателно и то увисна на врата и. Тя леко разтърси глава, а то се разсмя още по-високо.
Когато най-накрая я пусна, тя го подхвана нежно със зъби и глутницата безшумно изчезна от полянката.
Няколко мига по-късно между дърветата изникна пътека. По нея бавно и грациозно пристъпи младо момиче, облечено в бяло. За миг се изви вятър, развя воалите на роклята и, и отново стихна. Червени къдрици се спускаха върху замисленото и лице. Тя постоя за миг точно на мястото, където бе седяло детето, кимна сякаш на себе си и се изгуби в нощта. Гората отново утихна.