Читать книгу A little time to enjoy eternity - - Страница 4

Five hours earlier, a few kilometers south

.

The light of the setting sun shone through the small

basement window. It moved to the floor and moved smoothly

along, illuminating everything in its path:

white walls, simple wooden shelves. And on them —

beauty. Lots of beauty. A lot of work. Tools, brushes

,and paints.

The workshop was a creative mess, but the work was still going on

they were laid out on shelves in

a certain sequence, depending on the stage of production and the degree

of readiness. Some were drying up, some were

at the stage of creating sketches, and some were almost finished.

A lot of boxes of materials, bottles of

special solutions and pigments were here and there,

a hundred different tiny and larger jars and

special shapes – all this gave the workshop the appearance of a

fancy alchemical laboratory with modern

trends from IKEA.

The workshop seemed to be permeated by the spirit of creativity, the energy

of inspiration invisibly bubbled in the air, thin streams

oozed up from almost finished paintings, panels,

tables and decorative dishes. Most of them were

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they are decorated and painted with natural ornaments:

bizarre plants, animals and birds, mosses and lichens, fungi

and the berries lived their lives on them. All this energy»

lit up» the room, making it stand out from hundreds of others. It was

a feast, not for humans, of course – just for him.

A ray of sunlight touched the angel statue, reflected

off its crystalline texture, and a slight ripple of space, barely visible

to the human eye, began to spread

across the room.

The angel did many righteous things today. The angel can

rest. The invisible essence of warmth and light that he

remained floated in the workshop. He found this place

a few years ago. Well, as soon as I found it, you can see it right away.

There was little creativity or inspiration in his area

,and this kind of energy was always attractive.

Against the gray background of everyday life, this island simply shone

a bluish alluring light. This was how he saw the world,

this was how he saw this place. It gave the angel so much strength, so

much faith, that it allowed him to do things that

many of his colleagues would not have dared to do.

He was sated, blissful, and calm, but it was

too early to leave. He was waiting for her. The lock at the top clicked. A girl came into the house

,put her grocery bags on the floor, sat

down on a bench in the hallway and buried her face in the phone. She’s on-

Her hair was unruly, and her long, thin fingers

tapped on the touch screen. The new car was sold

,which was very useful, because soon the rent would be paid,

and there was only money left for food. Reana is a master, Reana is

an artist. But what doesn’t stick together in your own

life? She went into the kitchen, washed the vegetables, and made a

light salad for dinner.

Creativity has always saved. This was her life. All

the failures she «stuck» with creativity. She had it, and

he had her. And nothing else. The profit was always enough

only for the most necessary things. Reana never took out a loan

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to buy a house. I didn’t start a family either. I met and met many people, but no one stayed long.

Only the best friend remained unchanged,

with which you could get out to hang out somewhere and still

listen to whining about how everyone around you is a bastard and how

expensive everything has become.

Such a strange life, both monotonous and completely

different every day, because every creation that came out

from under her hand was different from others, with its

own character, even copies were somewhat different. And she

liked that. And he liked it. The angel called. Inaudible.

Invisibly. Touching without touching. Today, new

workpieces are being filled in. A play of substances and forms, liquid and solid,

colorless and colored, a boundless field for

phantasms, a flight over a world frozen in its beauty for

eternity.

And she went to work, putting on a light shirt and a work

apron.

And he assisted her. I wish I could say that,

but no. He wasn’t helping, he was present. And it gave

something more. He needed her. Not that slim

and regular figure, not those hands, not that sweet

,kind face with big brown eyes. He needed

her light – that fountain of blue light of creativity,

inspiration, and fantasy. The same delicious light

that permeated the workshop, only stronger, fresher. When

she was away for a long time, or in close contact

with other people, that light faded. It weakened even when

the works sold out well and there was no need to

create new ones. Therefore, he helped as much as he could:

he took unnecessary people away from her, recognition and success. And he

made her happy, creating happiness out of nothing. The artist

must be hungry. Well, even if not quite hungry,

of course, but a certain creativity is

a certain sacrifice.

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So today we did both. And

they both enjoyed the process, too.

What a wonderful end to the day, an-

gel thought. He felt more powerful than ever, his light

encompassed all corners of his lands, he felt everything,

every being, every blade of grass, every good and evil, and he,

of course, with all his being, wanted every evil

to go out of this world, wanted people to be happy and quiet

life. But sometimes they themselves cause trouble to themselves and others

,create so many problems that

no one can cope with all this. He was already doing everything he could,

and more. And the angel was indulging in pleasant memories

of today’s good deeds that he had done, when

suddenly it was as if boiling water was thrown over him, as if an invisible siren

screamed in his ears, and a red flashing light, deafening

howling, sparkled before his eyes. The spirit leapt up and flew

out of the window.

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