me the first time in a long time there where it snows, where a window with paint peeling off flakes of paints from life nude black and white tree, my favorite, against the backdrop of live sets from the blue Pochainskoy domes of the church .. all ends and begins with the speed of light. How many consecutive autumns my lips exhaled summer on a chilblain blind glass to see and have not appeared, but every moment expected silhouette. But my memory of the sea spread out before me a white-and-white, all in frozen lamb poslemetelny in an hour, often in the morning, painting the ocean of snow, on which my eyes run in marathons, without start and finish, penetrating to the heart dazzling whiteness, losing any meaningful glance, immobility of pupils was identical to the dead sea drifts. The only sea that I could absolutely have whole months, without breaks and pauses.
That silhouette mirage had my black and white night: it spreads out with a flash of flying lights and snow, then it finds a clear outline, and I recognize in someone else's favorite movements to pain gait. He left only with music of bells in the morning, with the hand with the moon, just a short time. Risen from its own absence, as soon as I closed my eyes, slowly and without a doubt getting into my dream. This silhouette by happy coincidence would have according to my relentless pleas to meet someday, and the person to whom he (Silhouette), however, did not belong, because he belonged exclusively to me, my imagination, but the imprint of which he was. Yes, I must say that the person really existed, was present in my life, though, by accident and negligence own self-esteem, and after he lived and did not know that his silhouette, walking on my night windows, trampled sheets of my dreams have become almost a reality.
Sometimes, people live like this: in the morning drinking coffee, listening to news about other people riding on the important issues in poor spirits, engaged in architecture meetings diary, half of which, if held, it will sink into the dustbin along with the ending diary, and go to sleep, after disabling the phone. To, God forbid, someone leaning against the glass for a thousand years unpainted windows, no holes in the next every well-constructed life applique fragments beskopromissno intrusive silhouette ...
This came foreword, afterword rather, about a man and silhouettes that are left in those winter fall forever .. Where I was the first time in a long time there. Where it is snowing, and the window with paint peeling off flakes of paints from nature, naked black and white tree, my favorite, against the background of live sets from the blue domes Pochainskoy church ... this time not for me but for someone else .. and draws most likely more ...
Now I have another fall. Another window. Another silhouette. Familiar, but with its own prototype, with a man go to sleep without turning off the phone and feel what happens in my dreams, with the frequency of sea tide ...
The Silhouettes
For the first time in the long history I am not present there ... where it is snowing now, where the window with a peeling old paint draws from nature a naked black-and-white tree, my favorite one, with alive scenery of blue domes of Pochainsky church. Everything ends and begins with a velocity of light.
How many autumns my lips exhaled summer on that freezed blind glass of the window to see the silhouette which would never appear and which was expected by me every second of the night. But happily my memory of the sea was spreading before my eyes the white-white cloth of the snow ocean, all in stiffened ripples just after the snowstorm, more often early in the morning, on which my eyes ran up in marathons, without start and finish, getting into the essence of a dazzling whiteness, losing any intelligence of a sight, motionlessness of pupils was identical to dead snowdrifts of the sea. The only sea which I could possess at that time, but possess absolutely, during several months, without breaks and pauses.
That silhouette tested my black-and-white nights with its mirages: sometimes it was spread in reflections of flying by car headlights and snow, sometimes it found accurate contours, and at that very moment it seemed to me that I recognize my favorite gait but it turned out that it was someone unfamiliar passing by my house. The silhouette have been leaving me only early in the morning when the music of the church bells started, usually holding hands with the moon, but absolutely for a short while. It was rising from its own absence as soon as I closed my eyes, slowly and without any doubts it was getting into my dream. This silhouette had to meet (according to my relentless prayers) someday the person to whom it, however, didn't belong because it belonged exclusively to me, to my imagination but the print of whom it was. Yes, it is necessary to tell that the person really existed, and was present somehow in my life, but truly speaking, happened in my life path accidentally and due to negligence of her own self-appraisal… and after all continued to live and didn't know that her silhouette walked diligently back and forth in my night window, trampled down the bed-sheets of my nightdreams which had become almost a reality.
It happens that people live in this way: they drink coffee in the morning, listen to news about other people, attend brilliant business meetings not in a brilliant mood, they are engaged in their schedule architecture that they create in the planner, but they do not realize that half of the appointments that fortunately for them take place will finally sink into a garbage box together with the planner and will leave no memory, no emotions, nothing. They fall asleep having preliminary turned off the mobile phone to be secure and not to let someone who leaned against the glass of a thousand year-old window to make again a hole in a well stuck application of life by splinters of an uncompromisingly persuasive silhouette …
This is a preface, better to say the epilogue, to the story about the silhouette that remained in those winter autumns forever. Where for the first time in the long history I am not present any more. Where it is snowing now. Where the window with a peeling old paint draws from nature a naked black-and-white tree, my favorite one, with alive scenery of blue domes of Pochainsky church…But this year the picture is drawn not for me..for someone else and most likely has some different image.
I am also in a different autumn. Near by a different window. With a different silhouette that has already got acquainted, however, with its own prototype, with the person who falls asleep without switching off her phone and feels that happens in my dreams with frequency of the sea outflow …
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