I wander around the house aimlessly. I avoid the walls, look at the windows... Silence is the only thing surrounding me... It's present throughout the entire apartment, encompassing everything it encounters... Laborious and difficult... Like the entire life of an individual seemingly happy, having everything... Always. I—internally torn apart, suppress my hidden feelings under a layer of waterproof shell. Seemingly safe, strong, and durable. But only "seemingly"... The perfect word.
So—I—my ego, my desires, thousands of thoughts running through—my—head. Already full, inaccessible, offline... She—off, like a burner on which a mere second ago a teapot-provocateur was standing... It tempts thoughts, prevents focus, gently tickles desires, striking at their very core... Coffee—it refreshes the mind, puts me on my feet, allows me to think rationally and flawlessly... but probably not for me... It has the opposite effect, and I don't achieve my intended goal... Only my heart can no longer handle another dose of caffeine. It rushes, practically runs, to meet the nonexistent, the impossible... Hidden? Perhaps... I'm trembling, my whole body, without exception—none. Every part of my body is trembling—my arms, my legs, like that day we first met. Nervousness—similarly.
I can't focus; "concentration" is a foreign word now... One thought rattles, another, another, another... Like never before... Never before. Yes, she thinks, there are many of them, because one gives birth to others, better, worse, whole and broken... but mine, pulsating with peace, but also with emotions. What kind? I don't know... Strange as ever, because they are always, or rather usually, calm, balanced, rational... Not like this moment...
Time flies, there's so much to do, and I still can't do it. I can't do anything anymore... I've forgotten how to live, how to breathe, how to eat... and without you, my world is so empty and silent... So what if someone's playing tinkerer behind the wall, constantly drilling... Every now and then, the plaster and bricks fall off because they do it all clumsily, ineptly, without thought or passion, out of necessity... I persist, still unchanged, the same. Almost nothing has changed... You know... it's just so different inside me now, so alien and not cozy... not intimate... Although I don't think it's ever been intimate... But friendships, so "simply"... There's no "now" - only memories that kill me so beautifully, that draw tears, more sobs at night... Because above us, so many stars glittering against the satin sky, never ending... and something else... You already know... Yes... you know, because you know my thoughts, because you know me completely, even better than I do... Like the back of my hand, only now torn, stained, old and useless... Oh, so there's something else... Think about it, what's missing? The moon... Yes, it's still there – the dominator, the lord and master of the night spreading its wide arms... It reigns silently, but as soon as the right moment arrives, it disappears, only to reappear later – and look even more beautiful... more majestic, different – because, after all, another manifestation is coming... and therefore different attire... The moon – the chameleon – sounds quite original... Just as you like it – because you like originality, otherness, but not stereotypicality, no – it torments through its very appearance, through its very existence. It lets us know that it's over – the beautiful, the miraculous, because it elevates the everyday – ordinary, the kind we've long since become accustomed to, contributing nothing to existence…
A new word – "existence." What is it? A state, an amok, into the depths of which I sink deeper and deeper, exploring its further unknown areas... The frenzy that overwhelms me grows, and immediately apathy and weariness set in, an expression of weakness and fatigue...
- "But I'm not weak, on the contrary - I don't think about feelings, I don't live in them, because I don't need them" - I repeat this in my head every day, several times - it doesn't work...
Then I want to drown out the emotions, constantly piling up, reminding me of those beautiful, unique moments, those unique ones, because "Ours"... But they're gone, just like you're gone, here, by my side, right next to me, you're not standing, you don't see what's happening to me, you don't see that woman leaning over the keyboard, you don't frown, you don't breathe, you don't smoke another cigarette... you don't burn with anger, it's so late... You're gone, you're not alive—here, now, you don't feel this, me, it was so beautiful... The words trail off. I don't want to lose it. I can't let this happen again, and yet it's over. I sink, exhausted, into my armchair. Where are you? Behind the wall? Maybe it's you—the perpetrator of these bricks' death. Maybe you've already come for me...? You're gone... but I'm deceiving myself more and more...
And they say angels don't die...
They say they come? And when will you come...? Or maybe you are, just not with me...? And yet I'm the perfect madwoman, for whom your presence alone is enough... Here, there, no matter where... The very fact... I shake myself and there really is... Nothing. I won't be either, because she'll return.
She, that is, consciousness—the coffee is wearing off, it lasts less and less, and I want it to stop so badly, this state... It hurts. And you warned me, you said it would hurt... Do angels feel... Do they even exist? Does anything still exist?
I fall. I lie down.
"Finally," I think.
The end... Now we will definitely meet again...
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