nostalgia [Theme] Page 4

- I remember those days, Willie?
- Booze is not enough to forget.

There is now, perhaps, spreading a thin veil of mist and lights pour a little yellowish light on the empty streets darken the silhouettes of the couple shining lights glazed the portal of the Opera, heard cries of coachmen, hovering echoes of violin music and laughter from the dark entrances can hear women's voices, of unimaginable height among the maze of rooftops light box - a lovely city, it keeps the dreams of youth and promising unexplored adventure.

Nostalgia is a result of the non - serious relationship with reality.

Natalia was again everywhere. In the rumpled bed, in the morning beer in the bathroom mirror in the dead dark of night, the failure of the bachelor life, in the eyes of my monk in spite of himself "Bishop Tikhon", the piano behind the wall in the squeaky voices of all sorts of singers on the radio. Everywhere she attended the red - haired witch with eyes like two Ethiopian opal that froze the sea. And I talked to her, when Tikhon was asleep. Talked to her photographs, its a visual image that accompanied me in my dreams. It seems that she was even in my new philosophy of snail in silver sticks, in small steps, in an ironic relation to his own person. She had impregnated with his presence the space of the apartment. It could not hide, neither in prayers, nor in the frosty morning or hot coffee. And do not want to take refuge with her was better than without it. Reached ridiculous. I met with Irina, Vika, Aleksandrina, but a month later began to call them Natasha. She was able to penetrate even the women with whom I slept - slept to expel itself from the former spouse. Probably, you had to accept the fact that our bond is something special. The beginning of her laid on the earth, but it exists in eternity. With any woman I didn't have anything like that. Spring fever? March syndrome? The atmosphere of melting snow, and upgraded odors? If I got sick again, the illness that was better than recovery. And yet it is a disease, and I'm not the sentimental whiners who poeticize pathology and wander through life with a crying face of a Pierrot. The order itself is the strongest medicine. Enough to dissolve his thoughts. If you can't master yourself, you will become a slave. No. The slave mentality is not for me. Let the French boys wash her legs. I wash my hands.

Natalia was there. After the dream I looked in the email. Premonition not deceived me. She was more discerning than I thought. And carefully. Bitch! I know not how she found out about the arthritis, but my email was hanging night letter, in which she had brought down on me the gentle curse. Angry for what I told her about the sick knee, threatened to come to fly over from Paris to bring some expensive drug that can resurrect even a dead man. I smiled when I read. This was all Natalie. To humiliate so sublime that undermine to nothing. "Raise the dead". Obviously dead, she believed me. We lived with her for one hundred and forty-four weeks, and she treated me like newlyweds. Pretty woman. And anger she's always great. And humor. Raise the dead. Yes. For her I became a "dead man", which can sometimes "revive." Sometimes. Just, apparently, to play love, and then to eat. Natalia was also a cat.

Nostalgia - the scourge of the Russian people, we prefer to live with a memory of how good it was then, the anticipation of how it would be nice then. Dearer to us past present and future because the past was good, and in the future... Not a fact, not a fact. All too vague, too unstable, too unpredictable.

Should once and for all to refuse any longing for the homeland, from any homeland besides that which is with me, stuck like serebo of sea sand to the skin of the soles, lives in the eyes, in the blood, gives depth and the distance to the background of each life's hopes?

[Japanese word] "of natsukashii" means happy, sweet nostalgia, when a pleasant memory comes to mind and fills it with tenderness.

- Nostalgia - the inheritance of the romantics.
- So, I'm not a romantic.
Nostalgia is a drug, it distorts reality.

I never understood the concept of "Nostalgia", remember some intervals, but forget that living in the present and people are not aware that there is no sense to remember this is when you can move forward and put some "effort" to present was even better than the past.

What if the victory of the heart over the mind?
And all the tired among the natives to be stepson!
Behind heaven, but time, alas, we kamikaze - ahead
A world of gas chambers, armies Vlasov, mass executions, but
Still pulls back, wait,
Shakes, are native antiprotest.
That, to say "Stop"? To stay, to write to the table?
Piss that I would die here, as the emigrant vocabulary?
Without makeup live real speech.
Did you think I could survive without it, but the distance is nothing
Be reduced. Thought - pass, all - nothing, distance cure, but
The tongue did not become a single gram Germanized! Quo Vadis?

Than to cover up the longing for the place where we are not?
Here, let not comfort, but not Lefortovo,
And you're stubbornly waiting for the home teleport to kick in.
According to the old formula, in a home where there is no Ordnung!


Bi-2ОхххуМігопПора to return domigrate citationstyle

There was a time when I know the sky by heart. Every satellite. Each constellation. Every souvenir that was left in orbit by astronauts. Each fragment of the missile, launched in the 60s. as a kid, I looked at the sky and saw the future. It belonged to me.
There was a time I knew everything in the sky. Every satellite. Every constellation. Souvenirs of space walks, and astronauts. And rockets launched by NASA in the '60s. As a kid, I looked up and felt the future. It belonged to me.

Childhood nostalgia and a trap.
Childhood. That's nostalgia and a trap.