Book: It's too early to bury us. Page 4

Not writing for someone who lives by it is disastrous. Words hidden from the world begin to fight with your cells, eating away at the body from the inside. They beat against the walls of blood vessels, trying to get out, not understanding and not accepting imprisonment. Now in the heart, now in the liver, protest cries with a demand for freedom are heard. The most important of them are combined into sentences, they become stronger, grouped, armed with metaphors and epithets and get out of control. If you keep pretending that they don't exist, keep playing hide and seek, or offer deals, sooner or later you will not recognize your reflection in the mirror. Reach out to them and pull them from the barricades onto the paper. People need them, you need them ...

The droplets on the glass after the rain are different life situations that we have gone through. Together they create a mysterious picture, but in fact they interfere with clearly seeing. Distort. Misleading. Everyone looks at the world through the prism of their own experience, rubbing bumps on their heads from numerous blows, so you can never say for sure what the truth is. It's easier to leave so meaningfully silent, or you can open a window and wipe it properly, but here you need a competent psychologist or a faithful friend.

It is unbearable to see with all their insides what they, the “others,” do not see. When you are even silent too loud. Sometimes, you meet the same eyes, filled to the brim, you look into them with the hope of being heard, and they wearily close. It's easier. And again running after the ghosts, or from them. Here and there. Year after year. And the abyss is getting bigger. It is scary from the thought that the moment will come when it will no longer be possible to jump over.