As a child, I would always hide under the table, building paper airplanes with the giant Red Fish. My mother never believed in her existence, though I always felt like she was watching. Every day we assembled new fighters and bombers, slowly building a vast army.
We were to use our air force to overcome the barriers in my mother's imagination and, if we won, begin occupying her mind. However, on the day of the planned attack, the fish commander didn't show up, and instead, on my plate, lay a fried corpse, riddled with bones. After that, I never saw my friend again, and for the rest of my life, I resented my mother for feeding me a comrade-in-arms.
Only a few seconds passed after that, during which a multitude of painfully distorted images from the past flashed before my eyes, forcing me mercilessly into adulthood.
Among the memories that emerged before me, I glimpsed the gigantic trees of my childhood, now aged and shriveled. Hard wrinkles appeared on their smooth skin, and the former evergreen leaves yellowed and fell, revealing bare, crippled branches.
The fresh grass in which I rolled as a little boy died under the pressure of thousands of nameless feet. Later, its place was taken by cold paving slabs, which, yearning for the touch of warm feet, wore away millimeter after millimeter of the soles of wandering drunks and suit-clad puppets carrying their heavy briefcases.
The old, small town, whose streets, houses, inhabitants, and hideouts I knew by heart, dissolved under the onslaught of golden mornings and sultry, happy evenings. On the corpses of memories, a vast concrete monstrosity grew. Grayness replaced the former greenery. People donned their pagan masks and hid in the shadows of rotting buildings.
The area transformed into an insensitive, warmthless…
…city. A shapeless, festering organism, incurable of its deformity, concealing its infirmity under the black cloak of night. The shadows of concrete coffins have become a habitat for bipedal vermin, vying with each other for the status of humanity.
All this is hidden in the mind of a hunchbacked sage in a ragged black robe, who daily fills his filthy syringe with deadly nectar. Feeding his body with an intravenous injection, he bestows upon humanity another sick vision of reality, born of his imagination.
Today, the streets are filled with grim apparitions, steely caricatures of ancient beasts, and lifeless colors stripped of their former luster. All this, as if in a hurry, tries to hide from the approaching golden morning.
Modern structures, yearning to reach the sky, have become home to numerous noble spiders, dignified cockroaches, and humans intolerant of them.
Thousands of television sets, illuminating the darkness of their homes, replace the sun and moon for their owners. Each day, increasingly drained of life, they fade to black and white. Trying to protect themselves from the dichotomy, they create surrogates of reality around themselves, embellishing everyday life with lies and artificiality. But can a person living in Technicolor truly be real?
Connected to others through the surrounding high-voltage power lines, telephone cables, sewage pipes, and even a shared indifference to everyday life, we form a seamless whole with the city around us.
Somewhere below, hundreds of emaciated couples, sacrificing the remnants of their lives for one last animalistic copulation, die in a romantic embrace on their cardboard floors, next to a garbage can brimming with the scents of humanity.
Meanwhile, in warm, single-family homes outside the city, happy shop mannequins share a tin wafer flavored with cinnamon.
From here, however, one can glimpse the magnificence of this place. I wonder how long it would take a person to fall from this height…
4:16. Waking up. Once again, I was brutally ripped from sleep and deprived of rest. Outside the window, soulless blackness battles with a billion tiny lights. Not yet fully awake, I watch the raindrops fall. Single ones, somewhere in the distance, and a few much larger ones a little closer. But all of them took on various shapes, as if to reveal the inner scream hidden in their lonely flight. When I rubbed my sleepy eyes, it turned out they weren't raindrops, but a downpour of suicides.
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