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IRC Log File: 18.10.97 12.02.28
And another day …and further. Pass empty, impersonal. Scraps of what everyone calls life. Miserable parody, Gray World.
Constant veil before my eyes is interrupted by images. They are carried in front of me like slides from the projector, which I was in my child. Color and black and white, different. And in each slide he delays, as in a pool. And in each you can drown, as in the ocean. Ocean longing, ocean of pain.
Stupid, whisting pain. Sometimes you manage to forget, it seems to be retreating, you don’t think about it. Then he returns, with the inexorable of waves rolling ashore.
And I get up, and begin to walk aimlessly around the apartment, measuring two rooms with steps. The cat comes and looks in surprise …« what are you doing, the owner?»He is happy. He never had the one without whom there is no life, without whose presence there is no happiness.
He remembers you. You came, stroked him. He loves you too. In its own way, in a cow. We are related souls with him. I measure the room with steps, and he watches me with a narrow cat’s eye. So the day passes.
It’s easier at night. The night calms. It seems that time has stopped and she is with you. Inexplicable, but better at night. Dreams are distracted by a continuous series by catching consciousness.
I love her.
I love her any. When she is joyful, cheerful, passionate about something. She is always passionate about something. She is interested in everything from the device of the mini-AT to e-commerce.
When she is tired. She often comes tired and sits in the kitchen. We are talking. We are together.
When she is angry, I am angry in response and we scream at each other. Then I hug her and we put out. We are sitting smiling. Time stops.
The world passes the centers of us, striking in paints.
Now these moments are like a ray of light, like a sunny bunny. They flare up in my head, illuminating everything around. If I could return back …That was? Don’t know. We never come back. This is a great gift to us. And great punishment.
I look at the phone. I can only watch. I know that if I call her, it will only be worse. I know her. I know how she feels. She is not up to me. Not because it is angry, but because everything happens like this, and nothing can be done about it.
When I was little, I often watched the tips, occasionally sitting on my room windowsill. I did not know where they were flying and where. I just looked, silently, not moving. Sharp movement – and they flew away, multi -colored birds of happiness from distant edges.
So here. What is inside does not affect the fact that outside. My pain has a name. But I will not tell you.
05 September 2000.
Herald
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