дневниковые записи
Open-air café patio
Empty cup of coffee
Ashtray reminding a flower
White table matching a white t-shirt of mine
Comfy yellow chairs
Immense wind tangling my hair
Sun-spotted arms
Air filled with water
Sky streaked with white tree-reminiscent branches
Far-away voices talking of nothing and everything
Cars hurrying across the bridge, like little busy ants; where art thou going?
World divided into two halves: one - calmness and liveliness of natural forces; the other - hurriedness of the artificial universe
6.30 pm - one may allow oneself some time to remain in the middle
If you look long enough into the abyss, the abyss will start looking into you
If you look long enough into waves, you will see yourself at the bottom
If you stay long enough at the bottom, you will forget what the air feels like
It is quite impossible to imagine that I will walk out of this chair today. Or in twenty minutes. I feel glued to it and it is only the wind that keeps pushing me up and sideways. Obligations, duties and necessities seem devoid of importance - and any interaction with human beings as well. It disturbs me to talk to waiters, I wonder why we do not have self-service thingies - like you push a button and your poison of choice comes to you through some electronic device. Or the wind blows it at you. Mmm, I appear to be hung up on this natural phenomenon today. The sea (or river?) gulls are crying in my ear, reminding of Virginia Woolf. I don’t know - probably because of her “To the Lighthouse” and “The Waves”, the latter still waiting for me to be finished. I start to think of an addressee of the words I put down and hate it, because they should be kept to oneself, not as if they were intimate, no, but simply because outbreaks of emotion should not depend on anyone’s perspective. I also think: the care with which authors (of no matter what) elect words to express themselves is fearsomely equivalent to how readers skip those words longing to get to the essence (or to finish the book, what can I say). What is more important, to draw enjoyment from every little detail or to run through writing like a mad hatter to get a good aftertaste? Is it significant to grasp what it was all about or pleasant pastime in the course is just enough? If I read every other chapter of a book, will I perceive the meaning? Oh well, here goes modernism and ideas imagined and realized way long ago. It is 7.27 pm, and the figures being too much attractive to ignore, it is time to extricate oneself from the middle and place in one half or another.