Book: Nausea

Frankly - I'm scared. And not because my life is so rich, or weighty or precious. I'm afraid of what is ready to be born that would rise up and drag me - where? Do I have to leave, leave without completing everything I started - research a book? And then after several months, a few years again to Wake up exhausted, frustrated the midst of new ruins? I need to understand myself before it's too late.

I now will fall. I have recovered, I will not, as a little girl, every day to write down their thoughts in a beautiful new notebook. Journaling is only in one case - if...

Hot sun in my head of a wooden sailing as the picture in a magic lantern. Followed by a piece of blue sky. Twitching several times, it froze, I'm all plated it from the inside. From what Moroccan (or maybe Algerian? Or Syrian?) day it suddenly came off? I surrender to the flow, blowing me back.

Behind him, in front of the whole world. And the day is approaching when closing the last volume, taken from the last shelf on the left, he will say: "What now?"

And I here already three years how I'm too quiet. In this tragic wilderness, I can glean only a bit of barren purity. And I'm leaving.

This part of the Boulevard Noir is UNINHABITED. The climate here is too harsh and the soil too ungrateful, for life to grow roots here and develop further.

After a few seconds and sing a Black woman. It seems inevitable - so predefined this music: nothing can interrupt, nothing appeared from the time of the world collapsed; she stops herself, obeying the laws. That's what I love the most and this beautiful voice, not for his poletucha, not for its sadness, but for the fact that his appearance for so long has prepared many notes that have died in the name that he was born. I still restless: so little is needed that the plate had stopped, suddenly breaks the spring will zakapriznichal cousin Adolf. How strange, how pathetic that this rock is so fragile. Nothing has no power to interrupt it, and everyone can destroy it.

On the wall is a gaping white hole, the mirror. It's a trap. And I know that will get caught in it. So. In the mirror there was something grey. Fit, look and move can not.

But now it's over, I reread what I wrote in the cafe "Mably", and I felt ashamed: pretty hidden, soul overflows, inexplicably, I'm not a girl and not a priest, to play a game of spiritual experiences.

"Nothing new". Just amazing how you can lie under the guise of common sense.

I think what has changed is the simple solution. And the most unpleasant. But I have to admit that I tend to get this kind of sudden transformation. The fact is that I rarely meditate and I accumulated a lot of small changes, which I ignore and then one fine day is a real revolution. That's why people it seems that I behave in life is inconsistent and contradictory.

If I understand at least, what I was afraid it will be a step forward.

But I was always among the people, on the surface of the solitude in the solid determined at the slightest alarm to take refuge among their own kind - in fact, until now I was just an Amateur.

Is it even possible to think of someone in past tense? As long as we love each other, we do not allow even the most insignificant of our moments, the most trifling of our sorrows to separate from us and stay in the past. Smells, sounds, shades each day, even thought, not said aloud, we all kept to myself, and all remained alive; we may continue to enjoy and suffer all this in the present. No memories, merciless, scorching love - no shadows, no corners where to hide, somewhere to retreat.