Book: The Part Of Improvisation. Page 2

In others we see ourselves. And besides not capable to see anything. It's not bad and not good, it is harmonious.

The experience of being kills the boredom, opens up new facets of views, beating in suspense to cry, to pain, to horror opening. And even die - not so. With desperate eagerness, passion of the discoverer, the curiosity of a child and the smile of a man opening the last secret.

Blood an intimate relationship with life. For someone hot drops sex on the lips, for some viscous hardening with fear, for some al, oozing through the cracks of silence with the truth.

And it's not even that gullible lot and it is a way to earn good money, just you yourself, in the depths of his hungry soul I want to believe in a fairy tale, you came up with. Just because it's always better there where we are not. And so, of all possible explanations of events we like to choose the weirdest, most unconventional, most exceptional. To choose and frightened as the fear of the unknown.

No tale will not fill the void in the human soul. This hunger won't do any miracle. But the great mystification of the world, the passing centuries, surviving in the war of the faiths and people fed by the incompleteness of the soul, will live.

Probably feeling the elasticity, flexibility, strength and softness of the water around you, dissolving the usual boundaries, pervasive, absorbing the sounds, the smells, creates new facets of meaning, it is easiest to feel their unity with the world. Myself - part of it, and it is its continuation. And the fine line between you two for a second wash. You only need to keep up, not opening his eyes, trying not frightened animal to the throat of the air, not remembering everything you knew, everything you believed in, to have time to look over the opening you line.

We all traded a seriously. Every one of us. Just one sells body another time, the third work, the fourth his soul. And what is worse: physical or spiritual prostitution is a separate issue.

If you pull the veil of consciousness, reflection, animal fear of man before his death, instinct of survival and to look into the soul, into the subconscious, deeper, where we've forgotten the road, death... attractive. It is fascinating. She's not afraid, she is desirable. Of the villain turning into a good angel, becoming an analogue of freedom, of integrity of soul. Coming out of hibernation and not an end, but a continuation of the old ways, the beginning of a new round. Not of uncertainty but anticipation. Because when in the eyes of the dead ends in the sky, the door opens. Not in heaven and not in hell, heaven and hell are here with us, inside each of us. And where the doors open... it is known by everyone.

People have distorted the image, the main was the suffering, it became an end in itself, the final destination, and complete manner for many. And our world became gray. We have made it so. And grey the world of our mistakes, our tendency toward self-pity and narcissism at the same time, sprouted roots in the ground, in the sky, in life, in art, in the feelings of the people, in their relations to each other, in their lives. Have grown deep, nestled in the heart, fell asleep with a heavy stone in his eyes. But even in the grey world must be some place bright colors.

Every painting is a keyhole through which to peep the artist's soul.

But people change over time: change his ideas, values, commitment and faith in those or other words. Personally I found those words in which I believe so that you can make them your motto, credo or something similar. I just want to keep with you forever. Because tomorrow I'll have another.

In this cold summer we're going to play blind. We close our hands into each other's eyes, recognizing faces by touch, fingertips, memorizing them is not beautiful, and warm, not smart, and alive. We will learn the stories of other people's destinies, gently swiping her lips against the bizarre lines on the hands. We will listen to. We learn to hear.

Go to the kitchen, brew a strong tea, a smoke and a tired look out the window. Let the world become what it is: a little sad, a little happy. Simple and clear. Let's all just somewhere noisy machine and something I bet the neighbors are, let them through the open window blows the same wind with the smell of petrol, strange spirits and misplaced the freshness of mountain peaks. Let burn the same lonely lights and mysterious dark same sky. After all, it's not so bad. And the bitterness will fade, heavy lump in my throat pereplelis into something else, diluting the overall tone of a world in which someone just smokes in the kitchen and looking out the window.

And in the sky are stars. The most common stars in the normal sky. And I don't know and don't want to know their names. I just want to watch, show them the finger, smiling and telling you: "look how beautiful". There, complexity tends to be simple. There at the dawn of the dew drops and we spank on her bare feet, and I don't read you poems about love and pain, life and death: I ask you to swim because the water is warm and it reflects the pine trees and clouds. And if to strain imagination, you can imagine that we fly between them. And in the evening we drink tea. With dryers. And all the secrets of life, rhetorical questions, painful thoughts and unresolved issues silently waiting for us on the side of the door.