The dawn-pale cinder

       
You appreciate that this is not a one-day story. The essay`s a stepwise narrative .You will discover a handful  of happenings  with their succession but taking place over several closely spaced temporary  moments.  Don`t you think now and then that  a life is only a day? That a life is only an event imprinted like an eyewink? The chief thing is do not trust this idea after any story and reap the most out of life, physically, mentally and spiritually, my  friend – every inhalation is an occurrence.



                The dawn-pale cinder


               When you sit on a chair – speechless, decorated with a red neckpiece and blue eyes I find it amusing to observe your cute figure top-down.  I  come to an antique curtain singing a motive I sing every evening you remark. “ A boring cardboard living ”, - this is my agitation to hurry outdoors.
“ An incomparable weather on Nautilus!” – this is your praise to the evening spring.
Do you remember, my friend, what is the evening spring ?  The wind`s filled with  the smell of inflammation, oestrus and woodland smoke. Thus we, invested with the air, start being contiguous to the atmosphere of movement. 

                We see lights, reflected on male spines. The flexible  fire tongues. The malleable shadows of shining rays. The fireshow  is organized in a town park near a  lake, covered with worsted scum and looks like a rite. Spellbound, the supervisors follow such a geometry of wonders, managed by human hands. We`re  also charmed  in a  trance. But at last I seize you and  turn to the lake – where there is no light – only  murmurous whispering cold.               
  “ It isn`t the best name for the things behind – fire…show…” – you pronounce.               
 “ This lake – is not the worse name for the things inside us”, - I reply.

                After several hours of wondering we face with your  acquaintance – with befuddled eyes and extra courteous manners. Due to him we arrive into a small club where we notice a completion of a lounge music concert.  The smell of sawdust inside. The wooden tables are round.  “ There`s chaos in  everything circular”, - you say with a dooming expression and take a sip of beverage softly.   The  people around  are similar  - it happens at spring times – all of them are wild, satisfied  and amicable. The electricity is suddenly turned off, and we (in closeness)  pick our way to the exit.  Nobody affects or touches us – only remote laughter.   We stand in the street. You look at a cup with  mulled wine in my hand with ironic surprise: “ When winter happens, we`ll  compulsorily  go for a walk with a few  portions in this way!”
   
                While the last bus carries us, I confess that  it becomes difficult to fall asleep. And, can you imagine,  we  -  simultaneously ,on a hunch , aloud  : “Я дважды пробуждался этой ночью…” The whole  divine poem sounds like a spell. When we come out we breathe grains  of wind. You know – wind is like water, which you can hardly drink much.

                Footwarn, we  cross a road and a  light signal  reflects its snips in your darkening pupils, in your insane eyes. It seems that at the same time autos stop and time decelerates  while  we drag our legs like through a waving sea.

                The old square among  old  red two-storeyed   houses. I suppose, everybody should   have such places – arriving in dreams, giving an illusion of return. How sick and tired  my nature feels after that! So, one of these red dwellings  is my memorable home.  We sit on a bench exactly  face to face with my dream. And I find your presence strange, but the most necessary  - you remind me of  the fact, that  I`ve changed becoming drained and defaced, deprived of a capacity to imagine and thank. It`s bitter, of course, but only you remind me what reality I`m inside, without allowing me to sleep.
                A night, spent in the open air, my friend, entails a hail  torrent of  remorse and imaginings. Only at night under the open heaven you are penetrated with integral hopelessness. Only under the open heaven at night you send all your love. And you will never get accustomed  to this pain and never be calm serenely when a  dawn comes. The most dangerous moment a dawn is – a verge between flight and decline.

P.S.:  my honey,  haven`t your memory survived after the  dawn? Haven’t  the uneasiness you`ve drunk from  only my lips left you?