Through the Lens, Through Myself

I don't have enough vital energy for life. There is so little of it left that I want to protect every single drop. I feel like I am working myself to the bone. And I keep convincing myself that this is how it’s supposed to be. That I am a vessel and a resource, that I will lay down my bones on this dry earth just to pave some path forward for her. My body is sick. I stubbornly do yoga every single day. I am a resource, and I need to be protected.

The dream: My mother said: "If a fire starts, I'll probably manage to get out through one of the doors, so just leave me here. The main thing is for me not to set myself on fire." There was reproach, complaint, and her own indifference to her fate in those words. And indeed, there were two doors in the room. I needed to go out into the night and walk the dog. I took little Katya with me. Behind the door, teenagers had gathered; they had made outfits out of paper and were praying to a fire extinguisher in silence. They said one boy had burned to death, and everyone was mourning. I didn't break their silence. I secretly went down the stairs. Someone evil was supposed to stop me, but I was let through everywhere. My mother stayed behind, smoking in a large armchair, staring at the floor.

Happy birthday 🎉

You are so beatifull

Your Blog is truly beautiful. I never know how ti describe something like this " type of content " but its just so wonderfully without context if that makes any sense ? Anyways I just wanted to say I thoroughly enjoy what you post and I hope you continue to keep doing this!

A day late, but...

с днем ​​рождения

Happy birthday!

Soulful, intelligent, artistic, beautiful. All that and much, much more...

I don’t know. To look at something large that has been built, you have to step back. But how do you look at what has been destroyed with a steady gaze? I feel nothing but the crunch of shards under my feet; I smell nothing but the scent of stone - it is the same whether they are washing the stairs in the entryway or when stones are shattering. I want to smell the earth. Once again, I am tormented by the desire to press my face against the rich, dark soil and wash myself with it. A completely foolish desire. That is how you catch toxocariasis. Miner's disease. Don't dig into your own depths, don't. Otherwise, you will fall ill. Tired of my own complexity. I want simple joy. The silent contemplation of time flowing peacefully. The absence of any need to explain myself. It seems I am even ready to remain misunderstood for the sake of this. And it feels like this is always the outcome anyway, no matter how much you writhe. Does everything die in loneliness? Perhaps that is not entirely it. If this feeling is anything like what I experienced when I lost consciousness during childbirth, then everything encounters its own infinity before leaving. It is impossible to do this with someone else. And it is impossible to distract yourself with anything else. They say the body knows how to die. It is a built-in, natural process. So, it is not as terrifying as it seems.

I dreamed of you as an old man; we were walking through a hot, poor town, and you started feeling unwell. You sat on a chair in someone's garden, but we were kicked out. We moved to an outdoor cafe in the middle of a dirty street. It looked like your back was hurting, but you refused to discuss what was wrong with you. I really, desperately wanted some coffee and waited for the order for a very long time. We never actually got our coffee. They brought you something cold to drink instead.