Выдерни шнур, выдави стекло
При необходимости заняться серьезным делом - выйди в Интернет, найди старый блог и убей себя об стену.
Хотелось написать про деградацию_меня на филфаке, но не получилось. Так что абзац - говорящий.
Слушаю Talking Heads, и как-то жутко раздражает, что я раньше не замечала, насколько они прекрасны.
Настроение осенне_нерусскоязычное, и очень даже к месту нашлось единственное, что осталось когда-то после увольнения.
Becoming
It was a cold rainy afternoon, as cliché as it may sound.
He was sitting on an old shabby chair staring absentmindedly into a gaping hole on the roof. The raindrops were going drop-drop-drop on the wooden floor, echoing through the empty house.
He looked a lot like a corpse. Not deathly pale or rotting or stinking - nothing like that. It was the perfect stillness of his body that was giving the impression. May someone catch his sight through one of the windows, almost non-existent by now, they would easily mistake him for an old mannequin left here ages ago by the house owners together with all the useless junk.
He had been sitting like that for years, or centuries maybe - he wouldn’t recall it himself - just looking through the hole at the motionless sky, ever-blue, without a single cloud to catch his attention and bring him out of his self-inflicted coma.
He was waiting for the Autumn to come.
Time did no harm to him. It wasn’t ruining him or turning him into dust like it would do to any other human being. Instead, it was gently shushing his thoughts and worries away, whispering softly into his ear tales of cold rains and storm clouds, about destiny and regeneration, showing him pictures of sharp naked branches cutting through grey sky, and fallen leaves dancing thoughtfully at the carnival in the name of Her Majesty the Autumn.
They’d always had very special relationships with Time.
His skin was covered in a thin layer of dust, pale and faded, untouched by the blinding sun. The soft summer breeze could never reach him there and wash away this dust together with the despair he was secretly cherishing deep inside his worn-out body.
***
People had always thought the Armageddon would be all tornadoes and earthquakes and drought, epidemics and famine and World War III’s, or at least something a little more like Hollywood blockbusters with a mix of old-school trash horrors.
What no one had ever predicted was the Eternal Summer. There were no premises leading to that - not any which people would actually take notice of anyway.
It was just that one day people woke up in Algiers, in Buenos Aires, in Minsk, in London, in Sofia, in Washington, in Prague, in Jerusalem, in Tokyo, in Moscow, in Berlin, in Baghdad, in New Delhi, in Vilnius, in Washington, in Mexico City - people were waking up all around the world and it was all clear sky and no wind and either shining sun - if it was morning, or bright moon - if it happened to be nighttime. It was approximately 86 degrees Fahrenheit that day. One hundred and fifty six years later it still was.
Somewhere along the years good old Mother Nature eventually came to extinction. There was no saying for sure if it happened due to lack of rains or peoples’ disregard. There were still a few bushes here and there sticking up from poor earth encircled by paved roads. But even those were more like a pathetic reminder of the fact that the world had finally come to an end.
***
The sound of thunder was resonating pleasantly through his body. His eyes were fixed on the heavy dark clouds that were tearing up over his head. The rain was falling down in torrents, washing up the dead city thoroughly. Sea-deep puddles all over the pavement - the seething proof of the sky’s cries of pain and relief.
The long-forgotten joy was spreading through his body. He was finally alive, out of his oblivion. He could feel the strong wind slashing painfully across his face and cold water showering him from head to toe. He felt an urge to stand up and cry out. More than anything he wanted to be able to open his mouth and sing the hymns of praise to the one he’d been longing for all these years. To the Autumn who promised she would be coming back eventually. To the Autumn who never lied.
Despite all his wishes he knew he couldn’t get up from the chair. It was an old deal they stroke all those years ago - the one he would never break for it would kill him to know he let her down.
He was sitting there patiently and his heart was fluttering in his chest knowing that he will soon be rejoined by the one he gave up his human nature for.
He could feel his feet starting to take roots. His spine became long and flexible and was bending under the strong wind. He was growing towards the sky which was lacking sun for once. Higher and higher, above the pierced roof of the lopsided house, above the highest floor of the city skyscrapers.
There, with his head in the infinite height, and his feet becoming thick tree trunks somewhere far below, he spread his arms and hugged the world.
He could hear the steady breath of the beloved Autumn in his right ear and felt his heart bursting with the feeling of love so great it couldn’t be kept inside anymore.
His chest opened up and he saw tiny birds flying out of his overjoyed heart.
His head was the sky itself, his feet became earth and his body was breaking up into millions of colorful leaves caught by the wind and delivered to every part of the world as a cheerful message of the new beginning.
This was his part of the deal. The promised regeneration. For the sake of the whole world.
He closed his eyes and let go.
With the Autumn wind rushing through his hair and turning it into new-born clouds he smiled.
Somewhere thousands of miles below him in the old empty house the raindrops were still going drop-drop-drop on the wooden floor.
He was becoming Nature.