Читать книгу Star Wanderer writes. A soft whisper on the lips. Contemporary Prose - - Страница 41

It is a deliciously charming, beautiful time when a person is calm and easy. On a summer afternoon – when the heat is replaced with a certain periodicity by a light breeze, which you wait for as a kind of salvation. On a mysterious evening – if only because it can also be a pleasant surprise that you wait for. And dreamt of. And, of course, all the most enchanting things are placed on the mysterious night, the progenitor of all that is magical, unknowable, in order to console oneself with good predictions about the new day, despite the hustle and bustle of the same mundane days.

– “And what’s so magical about that?” – you ask. – “Nothing,” I answer. We ourselves are history and destiny, with paths already trodden…

…I remember a time in my childhood. The steppe is endless, unrestrained and perfect in its understanding, it excites anyone who wants to just go into himself. Time stands still, or rather it stretches out with such love for you that everything around you at a given moment becomes native, and the very thought of having to go back anywhere at all falls away…

“I’m home…” – is the first thing that so lovingly begins to bother you. All roles change. And you begin to realize that there is no need to rush anywhere, no need to worry about anything. Time flows through your fingers like sand, not slowing down for a second… Only the wind, the desert wind, echoes the fleeting life and the thought that flies away, somewhere in the distance. Taking with it all the power with which you were filled. And the more obscure the power, the more attractive it is… In dreams I still dream of the enticing distance… I close my eyes and think of you, my longing, where childishly grown up reasons, the steppe wind blows not sparing my strength and me… And the thoughts continued to buzz quietly in my head, becoming more and more refined as they arose and flew away, somewhere in the distance… “What will I be like in twenty or thirty years, what awaits me, and will I remember these first attempts of mine not to go crazy…?”

– How beautiful everything is around me!” – I catch myself thinking. And I hear the scent of wormwood and the delicate fragrance of prayer that life whispers to me. And near a flower, now leaning, now straightening in the breeze, its petals rustling faintly…

– I don’t want to go anywhere, I want to stay…” – I close my eyes and drift into oblivion. But how sad to think that it’s all the same to be somewhere, to be sad afterwards, how glorious it was…

…And I already knew, maybe for the last time, so quiet and peaceful at home, listening to every rustle, enjoying every singing flower, rejoicing in this warmth that overflows me, but tears, for some reason treacherous and to this day. Serenity in everything and the joy of being puts its stamp. It remains only to subscribe to the magic of goodness, which has no limit, it is alive with prayer in the soul of each of us. And once again our time, like the sand that flows through our fingers, whirls in the whirlpool of the years. It won’t slow down and it won’t lag behind. Time will run forward, and we will follow, for we remember too often… It is a deliciously charming, beautiful time.