Book: The Part Of Improvisation. Page 4

I was always taught that whatever was not to show the view that I was wrong. Not open to weaknesses, never. No, I'm not iron and not a hero, I whine and complain, like all of us, just when heart hurts, I complain of heel.

With each passing year, with every passing day, I increasingly look back. Like something was forgotten I was there, behind, as if something is holding you back. And each new moment somehow lasts longer. Like time (over time?) slows down, turning into a viscous fluid, sticky, sweet, nauseous, heavy, from which the dizzy, then the heart stops, or honey, or blood, or viscous the revelation of the gathering head over to heaven. And I look at them... I'm bored, my friend. And time is flowing. Crawling. Creeps on the city's bloated from the rain cloud, spreading dust on the roads and sidewalks, licks at home stifling summer evening. I'm bored, my friend. I'm bored to look out those Windows, I get bored looking at those eyes, I'm bored to write these words, I'm bored frantically to grab the mouth, the air. I'm bored...

We play happy people. We are off with the immense body of the Internet crafty authors, motivating us to joy, and they close the hole wild longing, sadness, or exquisite, or desperate loneliness, or just plain pain in their own souls.

Ahead - two thirds of life. And from this understanding it is sweet to breathe, and I want to guzzle this life, distinguishing the dizzying confusion of being shades of bitterness and happiness, love and pain, light and darkness, myself.. and you, of course.
Ahead sex life. And that in itself is a reason to learn to be happy. And to leave on a crossroads of roads, and breathe in the wind and laugh, just because the sky is deeper and wider than any words, because there is something to strive for and who to wish.
Ahead - a quarter of life. A quarter of the whispering tales of the trees, the wet pavement, the smell of sea and sun, warm gentle hands and lips consonant, songs and poems. And even a scattering of wrinkles around the eyes - only dear to your heart, the memory of such honest, such beautiful smiles.
We still have time. To live, to breathe, naubise, suffer much plenty. We still have time to touch the hand of the stars and write your best poem to make someone happy and read the books that laid in the drawer. We still have time to travel the world and look into the eyes of each soul. We still have time, because there is - there are still a few minutes.

She writes diary of a butterfly. Sadness about the other colors and the smile of the sun. On the transience of the day and its great importance for living before sunset. She writes diary of a butterfly, painting of multi-colored pollen dreams, which sees. She is so kind, so alive, so sincere writes about the same, on its only flight and a bright bright light ahead, which she's bound to get burned but will, on a moment - very happy. She says the smell of the sky. She shivers with delight and sings about love. She writes diary of a butterfly, and I... I don't read it. I smoke in the window, press a nausea and try to avoid looking at this shabby walls, ugly on the needle sticking out between the large beautiful wings.

Again, again, again, and the air was hot and still, mine, everywhere, to touch, to taste, greedy hands, still deeper, my, everywhere, air, you, smells you, and on the lips of you and more, more, deeper, stronger, all around humid, hot, dark, unspeakable, and the air, shouting, and more, more, closer, closer, to breathe, to move, and you, you, you, stronger, hotter, mine, else, keep, squeeze, frenzied fondle, everything, everything around you and the air, and crumpled sheets, all one, all surrounds, drops in, all of my want, want, love you, incoherent whispers, and darkness, and you get even closer, deeper, stronger, my, air, scream, whisper, you, you, you. And I have no...

We are changing ourselves, changing others.

One birth you forever change the life of one man and one woman, one who has decided to go to bed together.

We all, each of us, firmly stuck in the web of events, other people's stories, the confused thoughts and random feelings. We had grown into her body, soul, eyes, naive ideas and secrets of the heart. So is it possible to go around the world, even casual, at a tangent, without hitting any sensitive waiting eagerly grope life destiny?

Each of us is the amount of happiness and distress, perfect creation of nature, is an amazing act of life in all its diversity. Each of us contains everything.

What's it like to be an actor? May have hurt. To live through the unspeakable, unbearable, a life, to paint the inside of their own hearts, other people's passions, tragedies, fly and fall, to love and to die, and again to get up, stop shaking in the hands, and again to start a new life, cry again, clutching helplessly fists and laugh at yourself. Occasionally lifting the edge of the mask, not to remember his own face, and only then to take a breath of fresh air, not smelling makeup. It hurts... But at the same time, fine. To bare his feelings to the limit, real, live feelings, much more a real household kitchen experiences, to bring them to climax, gasping from the delight of existence, choking the greedy fire greedy, eager eyes of the viewer. And falling on his knees, almost not existing in any of the roles, almost shouting from tearing you of a tornado of life and death, fate and oblivion, to see with you together, frozen in unison, in unison die space. Silenced, forgotten to make a new breath room, which was in love with you, with you cried and laughed, who, in spite of the cloudy evening in the street, ragged boards of the stage saw the same thing you are, something infinitely more than just the game of life. Life itself. Real. Lived honestly, fully, to the bottom. Theatre, like love, like sex with the most desirable woman, once having experienced this sacrament, the act of being, you will not be able to remain the same.

Let me take you dancing, this strange lesson of love and trust, which teaches us to distinguish the infinite gray color, which incorporates the later, sky, a myriad of new shades. Let me take you dancing, and, in obedience to the music, hold your fingers over your cheek, giving the experience of warmth and sensuality, balancing the other, the bitter experience of sadness and loneliness. Let me take you for a waltz, let my hands over his chiseled, more greedily absorbing the light and movement of the body, and allow me to recall half-forgotten remoteness, the scarcity and severity of the time the feeling of flying. Let me invite you to dance, mix pulsating in the veins and blood pulsing in the air, the sound, lean, and lips to leave your neck the imprint of the newborn secrets. Let me invite you to dance. And when it will end, and will subside violin, and the sky will fall, I'll take it out of your hair tangled in them, the wisp of a cloud.

We are so accustomed to speak of the injustice, the dullness and vulgarity of the world, forgetting that they themselves make it. Its own despair, loneliness, longing, don't make me ignore the living people, to produce banality cold talking to God forbid someone did not think something bad.

I respect people, I love them, each separately and all together, I have learned to see them touching, strong, vulnerable, wise, tired, lonely, happy, giggly, sad - different souls. I learned to appreciate it.