Anna Hmara A Day and the whole life. My gentle reader, I don't know who you are, I neither see nor hear you, and I don't feel the beating of your heart and your deep-drawn sighs. I'm not a writer, but nevertheless I decided to write, not a book, but a booklet for you, your friends and everyone, who learns to live, who is in troubles and, maybe, for those people who are absolutely happy. I'm not going to thrust my opinion on you; I just want to reproduce feelings and emotional experiences, which I felt when I was fourteen years old. My heroes have no names, their habits differ from mine, but in spite of everything you can find me among them, and, perhaps, yourself and people, who have lavished me at thecrucial moment of my life. Wake up! Hm: If you don't wake up right now, you will oversleep. (Crossly) I'm getting up! As it is every morning, with the exception of some rare days, when she, escaping from the captivity of these banal phrases, is able to feel fascination of the rest-days. This morning didn't promise anything new, although, may be, a new hardship, disenchantments and: tears. Trying to adorn her life in order not to strike as she really is and in order to satisfy all requirements of the contemporaries, she sits at the table. There is a perpetual mess on the table, but it doesn't confuse her. She begins to put on make -up. Every day looking in the mirror, she asks herself again and again the same question: 'When?' Only one word. Is it nonsense? No, it isn't. Just imagine how much unknown quantity is lurking in this word, how many events, people depend, depended and will depend on it. People in all the world ask this question for months, years, centuries, creating the history. It doesn't belong to any time, it calls for accurate definitions, but she demands, addressing to the future and the past, as nobody could do it. Meanwhile her life rushes, carrying away in the lot of centuries different names, people, cities and nations. It doesn't wait for people, who repeat 'When' as if it is a vow. I do want, my dear reader, to tell you about the greatest meaning of this word about it importance. I really want you to fill grandeur, which I fill, an inexplicable joy, filling all my body, amplitude of my feelings, and my regret at not being able to portray all my feelings. She doesn't want to go, she doesn't want to live. These words are fanciful because, at the first blush, she has everything, but this impression as all first impressions is deceitful. The principle of her life is that she can't change anything. She lives, or rather that survives, as she doesn't know ease of body and mind. Vital power of a young heart has run to low; belief in people has gone, and love has died. Nobody looks so deep into her eyes to pierce into her soul and gradually she doesn't understand why in this world of evil and hate, where dark side and disgrace have been exulting for centuries on the throne of human souls, why and how hitherto people do live, whose well and sincere love, as sun gleams, tries to chase gloom. Why well does not deal with evil, why it does not oppose, but contra, from day to day declines? Belike it happens because human belief in better times and their dreams are being reincarnated in something different, something what is weighted with problems and concerns, because people have forgotten about soul, about beauteous and roseate feelings? So many questions, but, not enough answers. Human souls will flounce about for a long time, looking for verity, but nothing can be done without confession. Stop! Muse upon the situation! Don't make haste! Don't run along the surges of life, pushing aside all things and without resorting to your heart! You can't live without soul! If you do, you will die. Affairs and concerns will kill you! Stop! But you don't hear me, as well as her relatives don't hear her. I regret to say but one man can't make people stop and think. My bawl can't be heard. Stupid! It's absurdly to spend life just for yourself without noticing others. Her movements, glance - everything is full of detachment. She has shut herself in her small world and there is nobody except her. Blank of the inland and the exterior world avouches human egoism one more time. She drinks tea and eats bread, filling her body with food and thinks where she can find some food for soul, any drug that can treat her. So key preparations are finished and in some minutes she'll escape from these four walls, which jam on her with a wild strength. She always sees weird figures, which come from walls. They regard her and laugh, and laugh, and laugh. This horrible wild hysterical laugh edges and penetrates. And now she feels these big eyes and hears a caustic laugh. She hastes outwards, one more effort and: That's all! A deep breath, a frightened glance, a quiver - it's a beginning of the next part of her day. Coolness or frost or keen wind and concourse - that is all what she meets every morning on a bus stop. And again she feels pop-eyed blushes on herself, but now she doesn't care, she is absolutely sure that she has passed the worst part of her day and that these blushes aren't as blasting as blushes from the walls. She doesn't care about these pitiful people; she has her thoughts and blank of her heart, able to draw any generation of any feeling. Her thoughts take every thing, she is rapted in deducing of the formula of life, and she tries to understand things, which nobody can understand. Every new minute is a new term, a new thought, escaping forever with advent of a new one. If anyone had tried to understand her, to perforate in her confession, he would find himself confused and would look for exit for all the rest of his life. But no. Nobody wants, nobody can look in the center of her being. In all the world there can't be such people. Offensive? No, she is happy that nobody can appreciate her thoughts, but at the same time she is unhappy because of it, and tries to find a kindred soul. A halt. She feels new people, new blushes and more amusement of her soul. She is corky because she can be cold blooded to all them, she is glad that she doesn't care a curse. What is it? A mirage?: Sure, it is. ' I have to forget it! Why he? WHEN? How much? How much crucifixion? That's enough! Stop harass blank, stop:! People, ah people:'. And so day after day, night after night. His image is always with her. It should be the only one thing that keeps her on the ground. She can't forget him, can't forgive herself that evening. She has been fighting with reminiscences for a year and half, but reminiscences are stronger, even stronger than her blank. All formulas of life add up to his name. It is not just a name for her. She is ready to give her life for him, but at the same time she can't understand herself. She doesn't feel the lack of 'love'; she is surrounded by the finders of an ephemera crush, she tells them the words, she can't tell him. The lack of courage is not the reason of her hush; she just associates these words with deception and betrayal. She doesn't trust love; she looses it. How often she strained to one's heart thinks about him and how often sores then. She admires to feel warmth of his arms; she admires to touch his lips, to look into his eyes and stay there forever. She is devoured by passion, she can't make her dream true. May be some years later someone will say that it was love but now she hopes that it is just passion and affection, affection to that darling image, which she has created for herself. Sure he is a real person, but he is worthy not a single tear of hers, not a minute, spent in anticipation of him. She knows it, but she is still waiting, she knows that nothing can be between them, but she comes to him, she knows that she'll see a contemptuous glance, but she looks into his eyes, she flushes on the wings of hope and splinters upon the grim reality, and somebody else cockles of her heart. She is tired, just tired! It's the last halt. It's time to disguise herself. She has to do it every morning. If you say: ' Our life is a game' I'll answer (I'm absolutely right), that her role is the hardest: she has to strain a smile, then heart bleeds. She jokes and rejoices, sets her cap at THEM and tomfools, but actually execrates them all by all her heart. The ogles of one of THEM make her smile and a regular finder makes her hate. But most of all she hates those self-assured mentors, absolutely assured that they with their life experience have the right to give bits of advice and teach people to live. Isn't it funny? Every man has his own life, destiny and not a moment of our lives has conformable one. So, how can they teach us? This doctrine clogs our mind more and more every day. A man has to look for the best ways of life and choose the only one right way among them. She is tired! This life like a stone hales her into a pool. At the end of the day nothing interests her, she wants to return: she does not know where; perhaps in that house of her childhood, where she was happy. She has been happy! She was able to love and believe; her world was light. What has destroyed and ruined that tender beginning of kindness in this young underdog? If I tell you about the pain of loss and disappointment of the first love you will not understand me: ' How could love be changed to the endless blank?'. I have an answer (it's interesting, have you noticed that people always have answers for all questions except the most important ones) - she used to repeat WHEN? too often, she wanted too much, but all her dreams are still dreams: her beloved has betrayed her, love has gone, but blank and affection stayed with her. From the first minute, spent in this most boring home of knowledge, she feels nonsensical pucker. The smiles, eyes, naŠve proposals - everything is jumbled like a gyre that takes her somewhere in an unknown, direful, bladdery world. She tries to have a full life in that 'Abaddon', but entity of her soul overpowers. Please don't think that she is as selfish as it seems at first. Even blank can give kindly. Even blank can arouse leaning. She knows that in spite of the fact that here fear changes to boredom, it's the best part of the day. Perhaps one day kindness of her friends will awake feelings that she has lost. The day declines and fear holds her. Before the exit she sees those big eyes and hears the laugh again. She doesn't want to part with friends, trying to wile somebody in, she understands that it will not ease her life. All friends have affairs, they all are waited by parents. Oh, God! How much she envies them! It seems to her, albeit she is sure, that she has lost parents' love. They don't see her; they just don't notice her. Sure they are not blind, but a man, who don't understand and even doesn't try to understand and help a nigh one, evenly is reckoned as an eyeless. So her parents don't understand her, they just discharge their duty. What does this duty consist of? Does it consist of only raising and upbringing of a new member of society? If it is, how is it able to educate a man without awakening beauteous feelings in his nature, without loosing these feelings to him? Humanity, only humanity can make a man man! But haven't we at our time of the cataclysms and brunts lost humanity? Is the murder of one man by another humane? Is that so when the rich steal from the poor, from children who are enforced to panhandle? We have lost humanity and it is our biggest mistake. So why don't we admit it? If we don't do it we are satisfied with our life, so there is no humanity and we can't nurture a man we can fancy it. But are we animals or plants to be fancied? Or are we just one more creature not culminated? All these questions don't let her have a sabbath. She is looking for the answers but every time gets more and more involved in the tissue of obscurities. She is not angry with her parents; she loves them with her own unknown love - not by heart and soul, but by mind. Being at home alone she has a rest for the first time. Loneliness is her friend. Only now she can go through the soul amusement and delight in emptiness of the house, and even 'comers' don't disturb her. She enjoys every minute, but then when they come a new part of her day begins - new chases. The blames and applications snow in. ' Do this, do that' - I hate it! The evening consists of homework tasks, domestic chores and nothing encouraging. Then she founds herself in her room again - and it is the most direful. The eyes look at her again, the laugh is heard again and recalls cover her with an uncontrollable wave. She sees his face again, feels his breath as at that evening. She thinks what she has done wrong today, what waits for her tomorrow. She can't hide the tears. She wants to cry, but the cry is somewhere inside her and it can't escape. The tears fall on the photo of him. She often thought that she had forgotten him but it is not true. Every day she feels more and more tired of the tears and it seems to her that one day she'll dot her lifeline. But it is reported that the tears are the badge of soul presence, so perhaps not everything is lost: