Book: The elegance of the hedgehog

As I'm not already missing... Now, here this morning, I learned what it means to die - in the hour of our departure for us to die; after all, I'm here, laying, shivering, on the pavement, and death has to do with me - or, at least, today no more than yesterday. But I no longer see the ones you love, and if it is death, it is really terrible.
Manuela, my sister, fate did not want me to be for you what was for me, you are protected from adversity, in the way of vulgarity. Live and think of me with a light feeling.
But for me this meal to think that we'll see each other.

Here you are, Lucien, yellowed photograph in a locket before the eyes of memory. You're smiling, whistling. You, too, mourned not his, but my death, and suffered not because plunge into darkness, but because we did not look at each other? What remains of life together, when both are dead? Today, I have a strange feeling that I'm betraying you. Dying, I feel like I finally kill you. So need to worry about this: not only separation from the living, but murder of the dead that lived only in the us. And still you smile, Lucien, you're whistling, well, smile I and. I loved you and because, probably, deserve peace. We're going to sleep peacefully in the small cemetery in our village. From afar is heard the splash of the river. We catch roach in spring and minnows. Running with the kids and will play and shout. And at sunset, the bells to ring.

And then I came up with the question: "Why? Why them so, and with all the other differently?"
What about me? Whether written on my fate? I think so, because I want to die.
Although... once in this world does someone with time to become something else, not what you are today... who knows, maybe it will be me and I'll be able to grow in the garden of your life the fruits that are not similar to those that have ripened in the garden of my parents?

I've been looking at him.
And rushed in a black, deep, and alluring icy maelstrom outside of time.

I have no children, I don't watch TV and don't believe in God, so I ordered the track on which people are willing to fold to make life easier. Children help us to defer the painful time when you have to be alone with yourself, and grandchildren even more delay this time. TV distracts from the need to build any plans on a shaky Foundation of our miserable experience; it fools us with bright images and thereby allows you to evade mental work. Well, God puts the animal fear of the inevitability that someday all our pleasures will come to an end. So, with no future, no offspring and no grains of painkiller to dull the consciousness of the absurd, knowing that the front end and the void, I have every right to say that not looking for easy ways.

But where is the truth and deception? What is illusory: the power or art? Mastering the art to speak fluently, we praise to the heavens that man has created, and declares the vanity, the criminal and the empty pursuit of primacy inherent in us all - Yes, all, including the poor janitor in her miserable garret: unless refused in real life from the pursuit of excellence, she harbors dreams about him?

In my mind "a terrible person" - is one that is so suppressed all the good that has become a living corpse. Yes, these people hate everyone, but mostly themselves. The person who is sick and tired of myself, I can tell. Because of this, he becomes alive and dead - to escape from nausea, which he himself calls, he has to kill all feelings, pleasant together with the unpleasant.

This is in our time a human life: each adult must continuously restore its image - rough-cut, ephemeral, fragile mask under which hides despair, and, standing before the mirror, repeat to yourself the lie that you have to believe. Newspaper and coffee for dad - a magic wand that turns it into an important person. Like a pumpkin into a carriage. And the procedure to him, imagine, love - so calm and relaxed, as the six o'clock morning coffee, it will never see. But the price! What is the price to pay for constant pretense! When there comes a critical moment - a mortal, it cannot be avoided - and the mask falls how terrible it is to see the truth!

But what scares me the most: sometimes - and quite often - I think Colomba nothing feels. All the emotions that she shows to the false and nagrany that one will question if she is experiencing them in reality. It's really scary. Can, sickness, it has gone too far and she can, in order to feel the real feeling, go for any foolishness? I can see the headlines: "Nero, in the street Grenelle: a young woman set fire to the apartment where she lived with her family. On the question of why she did it, arson said, I wanted something to feel".

Can't we all pull the strap of life as soldiers for their service? Doing anything and waiting until sent into combat or will not work period. Bring some sparkle in the barracks, the other two kill time with cards, gossip and petty fraud. Officers command, soldiers perform, but no secret to anyone what the outcome of this cabal: one day, all sent to die, officers and soldiers, fools and scoundrels, who are driving to the left of the cigarette and toilet paper.

It is unlikely that she is able to understand that silence helps to immerse yourself in that it is necessary for those who are interested in not only the external side of life - because of her own inner world - all of the noise and chaos of the street during rush hour. Anyway, but now she knows that I love peace, and we, unfortunately, live in adjoining rooms. And here it is all day making noise and rumbles. Yelling into the phone, starts the music on full blast (and this just kills me), slams the door, loudly commented on every action, including such important things like getting up and searching for a pencil in the drawer. In General, as to press me for nothing else - because to get into my soul sister, can't, - she started this sound intervention, and from morning to night poisoning my life. Note to think of to such tactics, it is necessary to have the most primitive understanding of the life space; to me it does not matter where I am, once I'm free to mentally travel anywhere. For Colombi this is incomprehensible, but she came up with a whole theory: "My sister is a slob, mean spirited and neurotic, she hates everyone around and would prefer to live in a cemetery among the dead. Another thing I nature is open, full of life and joy." If I really hate something, it's when people built their defects or mania in the principles. Colomba - is such a case.

What we lose, failing just a little, lost forever. The words that we left something unsaid, the things we left undone, all the once gleaming kirasi; which we were not able to use and which irrevocably disappeared... Everything was so close and lost it...

Is fading in the dark and misery - a worthy reward for love? And marble bathroom expensive apartment - the price paid for insensitivity?

Who thinks about the future, losing the present.