7:20
“In stillen Nächten weint ein Mann weil er sich erinnern”
Till Lindemann
Immersion in memories always occurs suddenly, according to people’s feelings, but everything is not at all like that.
The hunt for the present begins long before you can determine it, which, of course, eliminates any chance of salvation. The earth, objects and space around are slowly melting, sucking your entire being into the coal sands, thickening the stuffy air. And it seems that sticky tentacles of memory are crawling along the knees, dragging you somewhere down to the fiery core. In fact, invisible networks are woven from the very heart, clinging to the liver, stomach, veins and only after complete slavery do they reveal their black thread cells outward. The essence of memory and its power live only in legends, until events beginning on the streets make it alive again.
I knew people who were willing to do anything just to experience such an immersion. I also knew those whose wildest nightmares could not depict anything like this.
It’s quiet here. The little boy inside me is exhausted by the cold. It doesn’t even smell like spring yet, but the petrified darkness of the bare earth mixed with an icy curtain of snow has already broken all my ribs one by one.
What if someday we wake up in pitch darkness? What if each of the 365 crystal days is occupied by the ghosts of the past? What if we suddenly realize that the morning birds seem to have fallen silent forever, longing for the cheerful, colorful times. What if there is no one to chant the dawn, because the sun no longer sees the point of warming our artificial existence?
Someday we will wake up, at least in these photos. And we will realize how much space there is around, but there is nothing to cling to and nothing with. Literally. Air sterile coma. We will sweep our hands, search, absurdly somersaulting, measuring the tired emptiness, marveling at its purity and infinity.
And now I trample my boot deeper into the snow, grounding myself in the folds of the snowdrift, so as not to break the law of centuries-old silence.
I don’t remember anything except my look. Do kilometers, old postcards and what will remain here after matter? Is it possible to explain to someone that there was once life in the destroyed walls? And what is now blackened with dirt once throbbed with joy?
Every avenue is love at first sight, every window is the noise of varied speech and music…music…music…
How can I explain how excruciatingly painful it is to look at a pile of scattered bricks and remember a place where there were
small tables with hundreds of satin pillows, with aromas of spices and delicious tea in glasses.
These walls hide cruel secrets. Like my shoulders, so tired when I sullenly wandered around my home here and the wet floorboards creaked under my weight. Of course, a lot depends on us. But not everything, far from everything.
Give me a city. A bright, lush, colorful city with flower beds, with weather vanes on colored roofs, with a central square filled with sun and let three fountains be on it and let the clock on the main tower ring incessantly with its bells when it rains.
Leave only one corner black and white, sometimes I desperately need a night in the style of “decadence.” I will wander barefoot along the pavement that has warmed up during the day, listen to the whispers of curious streets and then dance. Lightly and furiously, right on the roof of one of the buildings, savoring my melancholy until I burst into tears from overabundant feelings falling to my knees. Gloomy thoughts, gloomy faces, gloomy weather. Nothing that surrounded me was associated with a joyful turn in fate.
They won’t write songs about us, but they will warn our descendants. And the world will again plunge into the gray existence. Probably, this is the end. You go there, nearer to the Southeast, and I go to the beginning.
- To see in detail once majestic buildings ready to tell the history of East Prussia at any moment
- To experience the full range of emotions of an observer who has returned to the eternal city
- To note the power of great multi-layered Diveart and fill the free pixels of The Global Space with your own personal story
Dark matter whispers secrets only geniuses can hear.
Thank you!
