The word "home" springs to mind. A home that's familial and full of emotion, or indifferent and unknown. The one I'm writing about is devoid of doors and windows. There's nothing about it like a safe haven where one wants to retreat and pause for a moment. Its space is tainted by falsehood, untruth, blatant lies, illusion, simulation, apparent kindness, casual conversations, hatred, filth, the war of the sexes, feminism, anarchism, and other isms. Within its confines, there's no room for a smoldering home and the warmth emanating from it. This is the image I have before my eyes, the one I remember from my childhood and later in life.
Have you ever wondered what the concept of home is? Why do we need to own a piece of space? Perhaps it stems from pure selfishness, the principle "to have is to be," or perhaps from a desire to express our own essence. No one would deny that, seeing a beggar wrapped in rags, lying in a repulsive odor, they think that this worm, the lowest form of life, has nowhere to go. Oh, how important this refuge is, a support you can rely on in case of respiratory failure. It's just a myth fed to us, us hungry beggars. In reality, "owning a place" is an attempt to fill a void in life, to keep our hands busy. This is evidenced by the constant need to repair something, if not an old chest of drawers, or relationships with loved ones. Are we not toiling away in our own personal paradise? It's also an illusion, a mirage we surround ourselves with to provoke envy, in mortals and losers alike. Is having your own corner, furnished like a boudoir, overflowing with kilograms of gold, a symbol of happiness? The recipe for life: more splendor, more splendor, more brilliance, more and more. The illusory form of happiness we so strive for. Nonsense! Some will exclaim. Home is a place on earth, peace and its image. We have created this image for ourselves. It seems to be a refuge, a safe haven. And it doesn't matter whether it's located in a good neighborhood, filled to the brim with technological innovations, or adorned with paintings by famous artists, what matters are the inhabitants who form its foundation. The human family living within it forms an organism whose individual parts are out of tune, showing no signs of life. Various diseases have a devastating effect on the material system, resulting in exhaustion, devastation, and inability to function. Imagine that your members have split, and each wants to go in a different direction. And so, one lower limb, having fallen in love with the salty waters of the Baltic, heads north, while the other heads south, where the pointed mountains await. And further on, the head, swollen with thought, follows the trail of its ancestors, while the heart, that spongy muscle, searches for a new land, a new America. There's simply a lack of unanimity, of harmony. This metaphorical image explains the essence of family (that is, a byproduct of the institution of state), which has become an indispensable element of the house depicted above. This family consists of a loving couple and a fetus brought into the world by a woman's womb, gray with realism. The husband and friend works in a nearby factory as a machine operator. After work, he always goes to the inn for a pint. There, he meets with his comrades and, over good conversation, downs several glasses of the drink, the color of gold coins. He returns from the inn late at night, swaying in all directions, and from the very threshold, he issues orders to his esteemed wife in a razor-sharp voice.When he meets her resistance, he demonstratively raises his fists and, in an act of violence, tries to break through the wall of indifference. "She won't listen to me, so I'll force some sense into her head." This is what he mutters every time he has to spank his wife. In a drunken euphoria! To be in a drunken euphoria! Even if he's been told to inflict wounds and mutilate his wife's plump body all his life. Pain and suffering, that's all he can offer her. And so he beats her, whips her, slaughters her, all in the name of love. She struggles away, tries to escape. A scream of terror. Shards of glass lie on the floor, the earthenware coffee set is shattered. As the night ends, a spasmodic cry is heard, the husband and wife weeping. He sheds bitter tears because he's committed another crime, and like a victim, she wipes her damp eyes, and then, lost in a trance, she tells herself that he's stressed, overworked, not his fault... Simply a marital union in a state of torment. Eroded by worms, full of venom. And where's the love? Understanding? In poverty? And suffering? Until death do us part? Mere pipe dreams, relegated to fairy tales. Once a pair of lovers. Now they're husband and wife, suffering from arrhythmia, hearts unable to find a common rhythm. He plunges the blade of his knife into her heart, searches for the embers there, and he'll find what he's looking for, even if it means burning her alive. Let it burn like a torch! She wants to scream. Blood pours from her, gushing as if from an open wound. It's the color of the queen of hearts. Blood that splatters underfoot. She falls to the floor like a rotten piece of wood, heavy and senseless. She lies on her back, her hands clutching his soul. He tightens, then loosens his grip, then finally lets go. She no longer has the strength to fight him, no strength to love him. He strikes her a blow in the stomach, a final blow. She remains motionless, now resembling a wax figure. Death sets in, and all that remains is to call for the grave digger. He lifts her from the red floor and carries her to bed, wanting her to fall into an endless sleep. He begins to speak to her, quickly and indistinctly, blurting out fragments of sentences. "I have to go... work awaits... tavern... mug of beer... I'll be back late, bye." It's as if he's forgotten he's taken her life. He throws his coat over his shoulders and leaves for work. The apartment door closes behind him.That it wasn't his fault... Simply a marital union in a state of torment. Eroded by worms, full of venom. And where is love? Understanding? In poverty? And suffering? Until death do us part? Mere pipe dreams that can be dismissed as fairy tales. Once a pair of lovers. Now they're husband and wife, suffering from arrhythmia, hearts unable to find a common rhythm. He plunges the blade of the knife into her heart, searches for the embers there, and finds what he seeks, even if it means burning her alive. Let it burn like a torch! He wants to scream. Blood pours from her, gushing as if from an open wound. It's the color of the queen of hearts. Blood that splatters underfoot. She falls to the floor like a rotten piece of wood, heavy and senseless. She lies on her back, her hands clutching his soul. He tightens, then loosens his grip again, then finally lets go. She no longer has the strength to fight him, no strength to love him. He delivers a final blow to her stomach. She remains motionless, resembling a wax figure. Death sets in, and all that remains is to call out to the grave digger. He lifts her from the red floor and carries her to bed, wanting her to fall into an endless sleep. He begins to speak to her, quickly and indistinctly, blurting out fragments of sentences. "I have to go... work awaits... tavern... mug of beer... I'll be back late, bye." It's as if he's forgotten he's taken her life. He throws his coat over his shoulders and leaves for work. The apartment door closes behind him.That it wasn't his fault... Simply a marital union in a state of torment. Eroded by worms, full of venom. And where is love? Understanding? In poverty? And suffering? Until death do us part? Mere pipe dreams that can be dismissed as fairy tales. Once a pair of lovers. Now they're husband and wife, suffering from arrhythmia, hearts unable to find a common rhythm. He plunges the blade of the knife into her heart, searches for the embers there, and finds what he seeks, even if it means burning her alive. Let it burn like a torch! He wants to scream. Blood pours from her, gushing as if from an open wound. It's the color of the queen of hearts. Blood that splatters underfoot. She falls to the floor like a rotten piece of wood, heavy and senseless. She lies on her back, her hands clutching his soul. He tightens, then loosens his grip again, then finally lets go. She no longer has the strength to fight him, no strength to love him. He delivers a final blow to her stomach. She remains motionless, resembling a wax figure. Death sets in, and all that remains is to call out to the grave digger. He lifts her from the red floor and carries her to bed, wanting her to fall into an endless sleep. He begins to speak to her, quickly and indistinctly, blurting out fragments of sentences. "I have to go... work awaits... tavern... mug of beer... I'll be back late, bye." It's as if he's forgotten he's taken her life. He throws his coat over his shoulders and leaves for work. The apartment door closes behind him.
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