True Sadness
Denis Nushtaev

“To kindness, to knowledge, we make promise only; pain we obey.”

Marcel Proust

Editor Kristina Golovko

Translator Evgeny Teterin

Illustrator Alexey Dmitriev

© Denis Nushtaev, 2022

© Evgeny Teterin, translation, 2022

© Alexey Dmitriev, illustrations, 2022

ISBN 978-5-0056-5355-0

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Hoici

Some minutes ago I made myself a coffee and instantly started working on the book. It is only the book that helps me to concentrate after what happened here, in this very room. Every object here inadvertently conjures my memories but even this yellow cup of coffee doesn’t help me untwine the lines of this intricate fate made of strong memory fibers. When this feeling flooded me again, I quickly tried to find a foothold for my further narration. And suddenly I remembered a childhood story – “Hoici’s True Sadness”.

Hoici could create incredibly beautiful poems full of heavenly airiness, lightness of fertile pollen, depth of blue sky seen from a mountain ridge – his rhymes were flowers, his poetry was nature, all his passion was put into mellifluent angels and they hailed him around the towns and villages. Even the Emperor of the Earth was made jealous of these poems, which were his only comfort: he left the palace and after a long time in the densest forests found errant Hoici.

Out of endless anguish, the Emperor stopped eating, his feverish mind couldn’t stand any thoughts and so he barred his contemplations in every way, he inflicted punishment on himself exhausting his very being. “Don’t, – said Hoici. – If my poems make you suffer, then they are bad poems and I will not write them again”. “I beg, write one more or I will blame myself on Earth and in Heaven for shattering your inspiration”. And Hoici wrote his last creation – a poem of true sadness of falling leaves, opening chrysalis, passionate heart, awakening spring and all the basic reality, as well as the poem of his only love which encased all his art with vacuum, making this art unearthly. And Hoici said: “My poem is now going to Heavens to settle in the realms of Izanami. But my beloved will be reborn and she will sing this poem, and I will meet her in my new flesh, and our souls will live in this world forever because we beheld the true sadness.” The Emperor saw Hoici’s soul divide into a plenty of souls and Hoici’s poems turn into four woman’s hairs, of which the Emperor made a musical instrument. He tried to reproduce the melody of the poem to tell Hoici’s story but failed to find a proper tune – this way he spent twenty years in this forest until he despaired and told his story. It was different, it had a different tune but only it could comfort the Emperor’s anguish – it made him almost happy.

Hoici’s story is very long and I will return to it because it was this story that helped me feel the irony of what had happened, dive into the deep and sweet and rich incomprehension. And now I also want to tell my story of “true sadness”, genuine for all possible worlds; but having poor imagination and no poetic talent, I am able to present it only in the form of a short essay, made of stories, opinions and fantasies of other people, from the past and the present, and my own notes where I have been trying to find the answers to three questions that scrape my soul. The first one definitely tortures every resident of our island from the very childhood – do we have to go beyond the borders of the island, and are we complete idiots when we try to answer this question? The second one is my naïve hypothesis – is human imagination the only reality? Maybe, we must seek the answers in it? The third one is a part of my personal story – what happened to my friend? The answer to it will give the clue to understand the first two to the full extent, as its mystery lies in a real and tragic life of my friend who tried to go beyond the border but couldn’t handle the inconstancy of his nature, plopped on the banality of reality and in the end couldn’t stand the prosaism of human spirit.

I never noticed Alan’s sufferings. Our friendship was built on endless dialogues, due to which we found the way to other spheres, ornamented our own mindset and in which Alan always went further than me, usually forgetting where he started. But now his sufferings mystically cut the fabric of my perception to different individual realities, forcefully tore the alive and full-blooded organism into several parts, and the new wholesome perception of the man who – as I thought I knew well – came to me only through the interpretations of memory free of impression.

Through the weeping canopy of a tree, into my room comes the morning ray of light. Sizzling all the trifles on my desk as if it wants to seize the cup which Alan presented to me. If there is anything that can return Alan into this world by some mystic ceremony, this china cup is the best gangway between the worlds. Its round stumpy shape creates the vacuum within, its elegant handle connects this vacuum with our world and a coffee bean image on its bottom reminds me of the unstoppable force of human fantasy. Please stay with me in this room for some time so that I can’t feel so miserable – the thought of this text being read warms my human nature incredibly.

My room is in a mental hospital where I have been living and working since my childhood, and which in large part reflects the spirit of our island, measuring its years of existence in the form of stories ingrained in its units. The wonderful world in which we found ourselves created a much more fertile soil for insanity that it had been in the previous ages – here we are always surrounded by incomprehension. It is ironic that people with such a science development as ours have self-awareness of ancient tribes: we don’t even always know why it rains here. Our island’s story confirms the theory that for people there is no scarier a devil than incomprehension, which is always with us – even when we feel enjoyment, a thought will definitely cross our minds: this will (and soon) be over, so we try our best to extend any enjoyment with the things we start associate our pleasant moments of our life with. If your arm is cut off, you will know the source of pain, and despite the fear, your soul will immediately start its painstaking work to restore your delusive self-awareness, but incomprehension is insidious – coming from outside, it settles in our soul and infects it with dangerous ideas. It is “incomprehension” with which I explain the fact that so many people are trying to escape the island knowing about the grave perils beyond its borders, and I became convinced in that when Alan decided to leave it.

I recall one patient in our hospital who lost a baby. Dismissing the fact of what had happened she tried to kill a person. She wanted to prove that people don’t die and a soul can be seen in a material form. When she was brought here, she demanded to see a scientist. As an experiment we complied with her request and she met one university professor. She started to ask him to show her a soul and offered any money for that, to which the professor courteously admitted his incompetence.

– Scientists know everything, – she was shouting, – I will not believe that they have never seen a soul. Then what do they know?

– They know a lot about our world but there are things that you cannot comprehend.

– There’s nothing good in our world. Why know about it? Give me people’s souls, I want to see people’s souls!

The hospital itself, hidden in the thick of the forest is a building of the past ages, much older that other buildings on the island. It is a real exhibit of our cosy place – it looks untouched by the global changes. Over the trees soars its geometrical bizarrerie which always reminds me of a spaceship with its crew ready to be launched to find life on distant planets – although now we are not even sure about the life on our own, but I am totally sure that I will not fly with the others because my house is surrounded by a forest charming in its mystical depth. My room overlooks its densest part, so in my childhood I slept much less than my peers: my dreams were substituted by contemplating blueberry skies, plain green matter and occasionally delightful owls, which even now fascinate me with their intense look. I sometimes was afraid of it, and so I climbed up to the hospital roof to become the master of all living beings. As if with this gesture I rose vertically above them, sitting with my knees embraced on a red tattered couch – which came from nowhere. This couch is still there, each year becoming more and more tattered but not losing its qualities and my childhood impressions. It was on this sofa that I first heard the story of Hoici, and so I started to live on different islands, each of which was inhabited by only my residents having conservative views and so not willing to appear in other realms of my inner empire. That might have been the reason why I was never attracted to go abroad: I always knew how to find at least fleeting happiness in a limited space.

I ended up in the hospital because of my strange childhood behaviour, but in fact, my parents sent me here tired of their own relationship and affairs – the story being so banal that it is not worth telling. I always thought that I could read people’s thoughts but in another way than in science fiction. I could rather catch a person’s mood so quickly that a meaningless set of things, symbols and colours started to whirl around me. Making a more or less understandable and logical chain of these symbols, I could precisely describe the person’s thoughts in the past few days. On some days, with my eyes closed, I could see rays stretching through the Universe. They never crossed but influenced each other. Shining brightly, they filled a person’s soul and in this case I understood that the person made some decision. He found a thread to God but doesn’t know about it, rather, he thought: “That’s a great idea to paint the house”. These ideas mix with a person’s routine and he doesn’t see anything unique in them. But I know that as soon as a new idea is born God appears instantly. God exists because these rays spoke to me – now “the rays” disappeared but the idea of God permeated deeper than the place of imagination. I might have looked like a zombie in my childhood but when my parents decided to send me here I saw these rays, so I was never offended by them. They did what God told them to do. Many would consider their action immoral but my parents made the best decision in my life finding me a real home. Of course, later I understood that my unique ability was nothing but childish impressionability, which was the base for our strong friendship with Alan.

Being a fascination of sweet fantasies at night, the forest around our hospital becomes a wonderful cosy park in daylight where city-dwellers always have picnics. On that sunny day there were exceptionally many people because of another anniversary of our statehood and I was walking in this park with thoughts far from society but close to social base – first infatuation, which was obvious by my slouching back and my eyes down. Familiar and favourite forest irritated me at that time but not as much as people – infatuation didn’t seem unknown to me and I understood that everybody around is aware of it, which made me feel even more uneasy, but these thoughts were unknown. I was thinking that my dreams spirit, having moved into this unpleasant person by mistake, will pay attention to me. To do this I addressed the Universe creator with the effort of my thought and asked him to make the events in a way unpleasant but desirable to me, which will help me show my heroic nature, my commitment, which – as I learned later – was called “male idiocy”. And when I save the hated yet beloved girl – a tree branch might be falling on her and I will rush to push her away and save her or some rascal insults her with his careless attitude and – in my noble rage – I will blood his face but get hurt in return, so that my pain could become her suffering. Or I might spend twenty years in my silent fidelity to her, which she might guess on our chance meetings but which she will understand only years later and her heart will not stand the depth of my feeling. Optimistic scenarios were totally erased from my mind and so I didn’t even think about presenting her flowers, though I wanted to shower her with flowers but the banality of this thought caused another stage of my rage. Occasionally, to distract from these depressing thoughts of chivalry, I was also pondering on receiving Honorary Doctorate at our university.

I don’t know what impression I had on my face but as I was walking over our little stream bridge, a girl of about seven ran in front of me, shouted “turkey” and then ran away to her parents. Loud and intense laughter broke right behind me after the girl’s conclusion, and I was furious that my sweet fantasy of sufferings was interrupted by this sheer impudence and banality. Looking around I saw Alan who tried to soften his spontaneous reaction: “This girl – I know her. Her name’s Veronica. Strange name, right?”. My eyes were glued to his binoculars hanging from his neck. We were in that age when children, often consciously, decide if it’s time to grow up or not. Alan with all his look showed that he was not going to grow up, but later, the originality of his thoughts impressed me – these were the thoughts I wanted to hear from adults in my age.

Inconspicuously for both of us Alan became my spiritual advisor – more useful that any enlightened recluse monk and more interesting than any sophisticated philosopher because he gave me answers to my concrete questions and he also had binoculars which could distract me from my thoughts about infatuation. We often spent time in my room and in varied streams of thoughts discussed the main ideas of our time. Surrendering to Alan’s extraordinary reverie, I submerged into his ideas on complexity of the world and on the possibility to escape the island where we could have ended up in only two ways – by God’s will or by influence of gravity. I was always inclined to the first one whereas Alan totally believed in the other one, so our lines of discussions ramified and went on two parallel ways. Once, when we were arguing about the borders of our island, constantly resorting to the resources of our child fantasy in order to create the arguments supporting our viewpoints, our academic dialogue drew attention of the head doctor. He looked into my room to give some new books which he had always supplied me with. A small mahogany bookcase, which is still here, was full of children’s literature. His figure in a white gown was so majestic to our children’s impression and his face mottled with tiny sandy wrinkles pushed the plastic space of my room to the ceiling and his peculiar and expressive timbre of voice pushed it even further – beyond the room’s walls. On this day when I got a bit offended by Alan’s inability to listen to my ponderings, he sat on the edge of my bed next to Alan and noisily slurped his black coffee.

– Our world was different. All the Earth belonged to us and we were starting to move to the space. We thought we knew a lot about it. Many theories made us a genius to understand how the world is designed. We already started to spend more time on research than on new discoveries. And at the moment of complete confidence in our scientific methods happened something that jolted us down the abyss of contradiction. Remember: the number of scientific discoveries always equals to the number of contradictions which are born with it. When we were sure in the distance to the Sun and the scale of our Universe, we suddenly started to notice the contraction of the Universe. Everything was happening very fast – during a month. It seemed that the Universe border is far from us and we would feel the contraction millions of years later. But the Space is not vacuum with some balls as it appeared. It is as homogeneous as nobody could imagine. We were afraid of solitude in this limitless space where you should fly eighteen thousand years to the nearest star. Indeed, a long distance separated us from the geographical edge of the Universe, but this month showed that one can easily reach this edge abolishing space, leaving time and adding “Bowie’s effect” – by the name of the scientist who described it in our times. The common manifestation of this effect is gravity, but it appears to have only one formula. Elaborating, Bowie showed that interrelations in our world happen before the appearance of the objects of interrelation. In the “chicken-egg problem” first was birth, around which shaped a shell and feathers – with equal lack of right to originality. In some sense, there is a clash first and then these two stones hit each other. This interrelation energy, which works beyond time and space, appeared to be a physically measurable value with material qualities.

But it can be registered only in the moments of large-scale interrelation – for example, the Universe contraction. Gravity starts to work in a different way. All the world got mixed when the contraction started to manifest itself more and more. Initially, only a large number of stars was noticed near the Earth. It seemed like a dream. And we do not know if we are the only left living on the Earth or there are other regions where people also live but are unable to reach our island through the surrounding desert. It is funny, that we call this desert oasis an island.

At that time I was impressed by this story but now I think that this theory was largely created under the influence of impressions, making the mistake which forces people to always feel the uniqueness of their epoch. It is in the periods of total chaos that we most easily create myths, which distinguish your time from a variety of epochs – we even invented “modern era” – but these are the motives that make our time just like any other. As for the island, we know nothing, and the story of the Universe contraction now seems very doubtful – I am even sure that people thought so in that very historic month (if it was a month – it might have been a decade). The only thing that does not raise any questions about its inexplicability and mystery is still gravity.

Listening to the story about our island I was thinking that Alan was going home really soon. Having no family of my own I had always been envious of Alan with his strong and traditional family structure, where he was growing under the keen supervision of his mother, who – with a truly feminine perseverance – fetishized the fundamentals of a happy social unit and saw the family as a project with its aims, tasks and budget. It might be why he had never heard his parents’ quarrels. His father came from a village on the edge of the island which was created by the people who saw the island as a possibility to return to natural roots. Graduating from our university he set up his small business of roasting and selling coffee beans. He was one of the few who went to the dangerous journey to collect these beans at the border – this is where they grew, though in a previous epoch they never did there. The father’s business had been living like this up to the moment when coffee quality started to be measured by the adequacy to capitalist spirit, i.e., advertisement. And as his customers had the same confusing values as the society itself, the slogan “we make quality” was a sign of a better product for them that their own eyes. Finally, his father started civil service as a border surveillance specialist – such a job, according to the mother, could save him from stress. Although after this his health started to deteriorate. The mother all her life worked as a teacher for the mentally challenged. Her pupils were mostly children from the slums. Alan liked to accompany his mother to their homes to learn about their social condition, which was significantly different from his own incredibly cosy home, and so Alan considered himself a fortunate boy from the very childhood.

The doctor still continued his long story about the island’s history and my look went to a scratchboard drawing, squeezed between books in the bookcase, depicting a one-armed astronaut. This drawing was presented to me by Alan. It refers to a remarkable dream which Alan used to see in his childhood, and which always fostered some inexpressible feeling in me, strange as it was not my dream but the dream somehow very close to my soul. It was this dream that first made me think that inexpressible soul forms have rather stable and material nature, which can be transmitted outside. In his dream but in different plots Alan saw a one-armed astronaut. He first saw the dream when he learned about the difference between “the past” and the present world. Lying in bed and thinking about the varied ways of wanderers to tread their paths in the desert, he imagined that they stumbled on the abandoned space station – as he knew from his mother, that year more spacecrafts were launched than in all the time of space exploration. Almost all countries joined the research of the unknown phenomenon, so it was not difficult to stumble on a ready-to-launch rocket. Having learned all the skills of rocket-launching, five of the wanderers left the Earth and soon were rotating on the orbit. They thought they would see other parts of the Earth but at one moment an air crash happened – the rocket was obviously not so ready. At that moment one astronaut went into open space and the shock wave tore his arm away and he himself flew towards the Earth. Alan often drew this astronaut, finding new meanings to the torn arm, spacesuit and floating in the open space. The arm sometimes personified a cruel battle, intergalactic wars and an exploded star. Then the arm became the part of an unsuccessful experiment, a woman was inside the spacesuit and the space acquired subsidiary meaning just like a gangway between the plots. By the time of growing-up, the arm became a symbol of lost hopes, the spacesuit had “Space agency MD” lettering, and the space became what exists beyond the thin wall of the spacecraft. But the imagination didn’t stop there: the final version was a mystic story of a self-cut arm, as a sacrifice to all humane, the spacesuit became a supernatural being, and the space showed itself as a living creature, engulfing those who couldn’t leave their material nature.

Alan’s image, which I painted to you with vivid brushstrokes, cut into my memory after all what happened, but Alan’s real impression was not always so homogeneous, which apparently happens to all the people on whom we focus our spiritual attention – from conglomerations of matter they turn into spheres which store illustrations to our impressions of a person. These impressions intertwine by the laws of our – not their – mind, and so our soul delivers a person’s equivalent who is an intermediary to communicate with real Alan. And this intermediary keeps our real sensations – he himself is a sensation, with which we perceive a familiar face and behaviour. The details fade away, we forget the elements of a face, clothes and behaviour but the sensation is more stable – it always stores its history, that is why, when we meet an old friend in the street who we don’t recognize, just before it, our soul in the form of impressions will transfer to us our attitude to this person and will focus our memory on the real context – not where we met this person but where we formed our sensation towards him. And we will suddenly remember why this person is unpleasant to us. On the contrary, person’s material life divides him into different personas which live in different places and times – they are the compilation of facts, characters of a book where the author decided to put into an insane man’s mind some imaginary people to whom he supposedly communicates. These people appear to be one sensation of denial of one’s own sensations, which makes rational people become insane creating a multifaced monster inside. If we compare all Alans with each context trying to abstract from our feelings, we will see totally different creatures – not people – who are born and die in a fast forward motion, they decay before our eyes, because every new impression takes away character features of this creature. With only an artificial effort (i.e., effort of deep consciousness) we mix different people in one persona. To recognize one Alan among many, not appealing to our perceptions, we will have to conduct an investigation to match different features of a face shown in any one moment, and we won’t be able to say that we discovered that very Alan but not his twin-brother or clone, or our illusion. Moreover, we won’t be able to say in the future that we see Alan. The sensation of a person is much more important than a person themselves, and Alan’s evolution happens in all people who know him, and each person infinitely draws his portrait from the number of pieces scattered in the space. Proverbial art of “realism” makes us study people as if we look at their “objective” portrait, but a much finer art brings up sensations and makes us think which museum we are really in. We would become confused in the arduous work of perceiving different people if we didn’t have a stable sensation – that very gravity which recognizes character conglomerations of matter and attracts them. Evolution does not make it possible to create two identical people, and so it gave us sensations which don’t perceive, or we wouldn’t have any spare room in our soul, but they create each person – life lives while it delivers sensations in any other living being. A person dies when we stop seeing them, when one actually dies, we fix the sensation of their complete life perception. If we learn a new fact of a person’s life, which will make us recreate a new persona, then this person revives to die again but being different – isn’t it why people try to achieve the depth in their works, the depth which can be renewed endlessly?

When I try to take my look away from the monument I created myself, I recall one unflattering detail of my sensation to Alan. I recall my childhood turquoise blanket which was a witness to the sufferings tearing my childhood soul apart because a spirit from another world settled there – love which, with its sharp blade, separated platonic passion from carnal, and sensation from vice. Alan’s sensation gave birth to intimacy that was immediately joined by vice, which made me dream of Alan and I was scared of my thoughts. My appetence to Alan didn’t stop my appetence to girls, in fact, it didn’t distinguish between these appetences. Separating different beings, “the sensation” presents each of them with freshness of perception and happiness – my separation to men and women happened just because of the knowledge of vice which is stored in a man and lack of the knowledge of a vice which lives in a woman; it makes me behave correspondingly and forms a different attitude to those. Dreaming of sensual pleasures, first, my soul was in the field of sensation, and so, it dreamed of a woman but the further my soul took me, the further I went from the sensation and the more I dreamed of Alan – the deeper I gave in to vice. This work is done by every soul of each person, and the ways are quite definite. You can separate vice into two parts, throwing away one of them, and so, you will be dreaming of women as you would about men. You can deny vice, and it – due to its nature, and everything natural is very resilient – will evolve into other forms and will start to manifest itself in your activities. You can surrender to vice but then the sensations will disappear. You can always coordinate sensations and vice but then you will be dependent of love which gave birth to this contradiction. Can we comprehend vice? My appetence later was forgotten but the thought of it came back to me after what had happened.

From aside, Alan might have triggered completely different feelings that I had. I sometimes understood that I had never seen such a combination of obtusity and originality. He actually could infuriate with his stupidity but his unique outlook made him attractive. I think he himself realized his worthlessness and with all his effort was trying to become better, seeing the only one way to this – to be original. When he was not allowed to be himself, he immediately started a conflict: usually a calm person, he burst out becoming a brainless bull or a hysterical little girl. While growing up, Alan was dreaming of different ways of his development. Having learned about the past era, he wanted to escape “the island” and study the whole planet finding other places of life. Later, like the majority of other residents, he dreamed of building a perfect society on “the island”. Having read utopian literature, he thought that the problem of a perfect society had always been in the scale of this project realization – everything seemed too abstract. In our case the problem of the scale was solved naturally.

In the moments of loneliness Alan strived for going to the desert and wandering there until his remnants of memory disappear together with the sensation of time. He used to recall that in his childhood science attracted him because imagination didn’t aspire to comprehend the truth – it aspired to invent it. Later, Alan took up more practical ways of comprehension, this is how he could directly influence the truth and get a feedback. But the limits of such comprehension made him bored quite fast, because his imagination couldn’t find any life in it. He admired electricity, which fascinated his imagination, but household devices which depended on it, made him frustrated. All these ways joined in Alan by the time of his growing-up, and he always had to jump from one concept to another, producing an impression of a reserved but curious young man with a bit of a wild look. The idea to organize the trip abroad came to him in the moment of the deepest self-identification crisis: after a number of obsessive aspirations to do whatever but not to halt at one thing. He studied the motions of ants in an anthill, took up ornithology, arduously tried to understand the relativity theory and ecstatically went through cookbooks.

But let us come back to just another attempt of islanders to go beyond the border. It must be noted that on the day when Alan told me about his idea to go beyond, a retired patient died of a stroke. I had been taking care of this patient for a month and studied him well, even though he couldn’t say a comprehensible word. His image pierced through the mask of his disease: he made an impression of a stingy and capricious person because of his sunk look independent of his memory. Alan would see the results of neglected flaccidity in the man – he was always irritated by people without natural generosity, what made him behave really courteously with hypocritical people who, in the first place, try to represent benevolence and sympathy. That day he died of doctors’ malpractice, who prescribed him incompatible medicines. But their attempts to interact with him initially looked like communication of prison wardens with a retarded criminal. When I was first taken to him, he was tied to bed, as he was said to “show aggression”, but in the first two hours in his room I was able to acquire rapport – I had no sympathy to his mutilated body and no pity to his condition but the desire to communicate with a person who appeared to be in one room with me. This was the reason why the care for him was given to me, and I started to feel direct responsibility for his life, which refined my perception. That is why his death impressed me – I was furious.

If we look more attentively, our mentality works like a camera obscura: our consciousness presents some dark soggy room with a tiny hole, and an ethereal divine hand sends us shapes of the external world with a ray of light, but we receive an inverse and vague image and we have to cleanse the field of our turmoil of those vague images; though more often we concentrate on these scattered pictures, keeping only impressions and, finally, we live not in our mentality, which like an eye has to look to see, but in the kaleidoscope of our impressions, which turns our turmoil into a dense forest with various plants and insects with no colour, smell, taste or matter but with an enviable submission to our narcissism.

It is just the analogy I recollected but not from the death, that I had seen a lot of times, but from a legendary abyss between people – detachment. Pronouncing this word with just a touch with it I find myself in that room smelling of medicines, besotted with its sharpness and with a feeling of detachment as if you are in the devil’s office. Limitless vials and syringes as vessels of an ancient alchemist surrounded the dying, in order to press the soul to the body and not let it go, but they did serve to the decomposition of this body just as the room itself – decomposing of the various smells. Earlier I liked this combination of smells for their specific atmosphere of worship of a human’s desire to live, as frankincense opens the temple doors to worship the desire to believe. But it is a peculiar law of feelings that affects our perception.

We do not live by judgments, we live in a special world of feelings, an endless stream engulfing our energy, which can be renewed only by our suffering, and we can guess that by the movement of our thoughts, whose acuteness, in a greater degree, is shown in the moments of deep loneliness or loss, when we are ready to perform really heroic actions in good faith, with no conceptions and arrangements – on the contrary, all the chaos of these ideas confines our mentality in the moments of pleasure, which delivers envy, and we begin to consider all the received pleasures as a part of justification for our previous sufferings, but the true nature of the feeling is that it cannot be an entity, and so we have to form different feelings towards familiar places and people, familiar events and thoughts – they are in fact difficult to distinguish in our mentality, and we sometimes perceive more details of environment that thoughts in a person; additionally, we constantly have to feel our own existence, which is hardest to do, because we don’t want to reject places, people, thoughts and events as their loss leads to the loss of ourselves, our warm corner of life, in which I futilely tried to put the death of this man – with all my persistence I wanted to make it my own comprehension of life, but this spiritual passion emerged not due to his death but as a result of its incomprehensibility for myself and the impossibility to react to it in any way because I (if we remember my own feelings) have always seen sufferings and I understood that death was a real gift for that man, although, the thought of it was so exotic for my mentality that I was trying to outvoice myself so as to conclude that continuation of life would be the best outcome for him because the man’s identity and his sufferings joined in an integral whole and the real face showed only when the sufferings disappeared and I started to find living feelings towards him as I stopped seeing his sufferings. And now I see living feelings towards Alan too.

It was midday when this patient died.

To distract myself I accepted Alan’s earlier invitation to visit a famous venue orotundly called “Port Charlotte”, that offered the best smoking narcotic mixes, which disgusted me. Because of his eccentricity, Alan visited this place quite often. He always persuaded me that this experience is a wonderful method of work with one’s mentality. Without excessive attraction, these mixes could open new ways for contemplation, Alan said to me, and that day I yielded to his suasions but because of the horrific fear of this harmless action I decided to note down all my experiences in order to gain myself back deciphering the notes if something goes wrong. This experience was overshadowed by the necessity to communicate with Alan’s friends, whom I had never liked, but I needed to distract. Being in the basement of an old residential house on Owen Street, which crept out like a dead man’s bony arm from a grave in this quickly developing district of our island, I was irritated by each perceived object – this building of architecture, forever painted pink, made an impression of a dummy which is tried to be presented as a museum exhibit; this Alan’s drug habit made me despise all of him, as it subdued all his enriched impulses of self-realization with a vulgar attempt to leave for the lair of his fantasies, but on that day even more irritation was caused by the street name with the surname meaningless to me, so I submerged into this patch of the conceptual approach to life comprehension with a squeamish feeling towards myself.

On this joyless and boring patch, in addition to my nasty disposition, Alan introduced me to a so-called disciple of art, whom he admired, however, this young man completed my picture of loneliness because he seemed a really “vulgar larva of society” (using Mr. Huxley’s expression). But it was him who made me look at Alan in a different way – as if by accident, providence put these two people together to make their faults intensify each other. Staying in the presence of this man I realized why I had always considered Alan “weaselly” – I even felt “weaselly” myself. The worst was the fact that a mediocrity considered himself something unique and stood in front of his art not giving it its own word. This genius was beaming with “simplicity of truth” in this dark room of the painted building, but in a complex refraction we see a more colourless yet more clear image than looking at a direct source of light: mediocrity always strives to shine filling the space of impression with dancing shadows – this is why we cannot descry what a person or their art really are.

And I think he understands how much I despise him and so he closes even more in his shell because the opinion similar to mine is encountered not for the first time, and it serves just as a confirmation of poor judgement of the “collective consciousness”, although, observing it from my position, I can see the manifestation of this phenomenon towards him too. Genuine people of art, whom I love, unlike Mr. X, didn’t suffer from “conceptualism” though their approach was not understood by many – I’d better say, it was understood by all but it took time to perceive it, it required concentration and presence of some kind of ambition. They didn’t shine with meaninglessness but tried to find its reflection in their own lives, so their art didn’t lose gravity – it could be imperfect, undeveloped or unfinished, but it had spirit while Mr. X paraded his impotence of creative outlook, showing hard work and achieving “high quality” in unworthy things, which made a spectator feel own pretension. Does a spectator have to feel their presence in a work of art at all, does he have to feel that he is addressed? I don’t think so – the difference between people is so tiny that we can raise our creative outlook to Olympus, that will be inaccessible to the others, that is why I see the right way in creating a single outlook with a spectator not in achieving infinite levels of abstraction, which lose their content more each time an author (similar to Mr. X) tries to input more meaning in them. In the limitless vastness of my ego, I can imagine that my text will be read by people of next generations, it is possible that our island will disappear and the Earth will be united again, and my text will present only historic value, but all of this is a farfetched position – eternity and supertemporal actuality manifests itself with a maximal closeness to the mysticism of an author’s current moment. While I am on the island, no matter how familiar and banal it is for me, no matter how much I want to go beyond – I will be writing about the island, not inventing something extra, and also about the project of going abroad, which Alan produced.

In the heat of such passion, because of influence of the irritating environment and even more irritating Mr. X, I was finally allowed to fulfil my experience when some of Alan’s friends had already passed substantive way in this direction. At some moment they reminded me of a pack of headless space chickens, but their condition helped me to relax and not to feel embarrassed by my notebook, in which I recorded my experience on a low and hardly noticeable table, falling deeper and deeper into the atmosphere of a smoke-filled room and dark green walls with velvety surface of floral patterns.

“First, it’s frightening, then you get used to it. I’m unreasonably fun. As if I’m in a dream. I’m afraid it will affect my cognitive abilities (fear of castration). There’s no time, I’m moving in time and space (!). I have no responsibility (!). I’m interested to learn. I don’t perceive all the reality. I have a feeling that I will forget it all like a dream. They say, the events will stay in my memory. We’ll see. I live with feelings. You must just think of a feeling and you start fulfilling it. I’m moved by something inner. It might be instincts, it might be a part of my thoughts that rule me. It’s not repressed, I don’t feel fear. I might not understand that I am alive. I don’t believe I can manage it to the table. I can’t think concretely (!) and invent. I can count, I’m totally rational, do what my brain orders, but with all it – it’s not ME. I am different. Level of banality decreased. I answer rationally but not the way I would answer. I am not ashamed. Although some repressed traits of character reappear. I start to obey the flock, looking for a leader. I’m eccentric, but I understand this is not real ME and so, I’m not afraid to behave this way. I am sometimes afraid to stay like this forever. I can’t articulate words well. The more I’m surprised with this difficulty, the bigger it becomes. It’s funny. I speak slowly. At first, I thought that my heart stopped but then I felt it was beating too slowly. It might not be true! I’m beyond the time. At some moment everything started to whirl but not for long. I perceive people as mine among those who have also taken it, others are not from our narrow world. There are only them and matter. At some moment voices started to be heard as prophetic, especially at the beginning. I think that nobody hears me. I suddenly thought that I am somewhere far away (!), something is happening to me, I’m in a dream”.

I am ashamed to admit that during this experience I almost started to love the people around me, including Mr. X, however, as I had expected, this experience later evoked negative reactions in me as I had always been dedicated to the love phenomenon of my soul to waste it on despised people. In addition, being charged with own impressions doesn’t give the output to new spheres, where the doubt in your own sensations must always serve as a defense from the monsters of your unrestrained fantasy, and where the question “Is our whole life a dream?” nourishes every receptor of our life with pleasant sensations of spiritual independence. Here I recall again the story of poor Hoici: once he dreamed that he was an owl whiter than a snowy desert, and the sensation of being this creature appealed to him so much that he covered unthinkable distances in his dream and closer to his wake he saw the eyes of a lonely wanderer who engulfed him with his sad blue look, and to the question: “Why are you so sad?” the wanderer answered: “I have been listening to this forest spirits’ tales for too long on condition that I will never tell them to people, but I told them to my beloved and they took away my ears. Waking up, Hoici couldn’t decide who he is: an owl, an earless wanderer or Hoici, and are those owls what they seem, and are people what they think of themselves?

But Alan was proud of his broad-mindedness and, probably, the leap of his narcotic imagination pushed him to develop the idea of going abroad, which he had mentioned before. He told me about his determination the next day in my room. He came early in the morning, which he hadn’t often done, and almost immediately went to the core of his topic, giving numerous reasons and tending to a cup almost every second – he seemed to be in a tense disposition and drank a lot of coffee. But for me, it was more interesting to gaze at morning rays of light on the table, which seemed especially golden and nonintrusive that day. But when I understood what Alan was talking about, his decision was unexpected to me and hinting me how badly we know our friends and relatives: or, rather we know their static state, but when comes the time of change, only true feelings and sensations remain stable, all the rest is swept from the field of our life.

– Physics, philosophy – they will never lead to significant advances because they don’t have anything new. We need a novel method of uncovering reality, which the island gives. We must be engaged in an idea of a real movement. These people sitting still and scared of everything that will not help them warm their flabby snouts must not be the landmarks in our search. They can’t even buy flowers to fuck well. Going beyond is a wonderful idea not to dry out in this bog. You know, I have been thinking a lot about mentality and concluded that you were right – everything that we see is an illusion. I am sure that we can invent an instrument to break this illusion and find the way to new realities…

After these words I felt such a stream of inner malice and violence that his words still sound in my head like a prophecy harbingering the upcoming disaster – I have never talked about the evanescence of reality and when I was talking about “illusion”, I only meant our personal inability to perceive accumulating layers of perception, which take so much of our energy, that we are often unable to understand everything according to its inner nature.

– I recall you were going to start a family? – I asked half-jokingly to stop this delirium, but indignation from my phrase spread over his face.

– Children are too easy, it’s the easiest way to achieve something, but then we will never move and will die of hunger on this island – sooner or later, it is going to happen as said in your lecture by… – here Alan mentioned the name which I completely forgot, but whose lectures he really liked – I was looking for these lectures later but couldn’t find, or I might not have wanted to find, – you must listen to them. He actually speaks about illusions which surround us.

– Yes, but I meant those illusions that are only in ourselves, and the problem itself never leaves our mentality. As if it exists only in us. Why do you think that we are surrounded by some worlds? – I had a feeling that I was talking to Alan for the first time, although, I had already had this impression before.

I gradually started to lose the thread of our conversation and started to concentrate on my own soul. Only some words and sensations were left in my memory after this dialogue. “Maybe, you don’t want to develop your idea yourself?”. “No, I meant a completely different thing”. “I think you go aside from the real way”. “What is the criterion of this way?”. “We can prove it. You can’t prove philosophy – it’s just a fib and yet another illusion”. “I don’t think so, do you want to go abroad the island?”. “Yes, this exit is the most important for our island, though being a dangerous enterprise”. “Whyever did you start to have such thoughts?”. “I was observing a bee flying in our flat, that was banging the glass to fly away but couldn’t notice an open window in two metres. It was so silly and limited. I didn’t help it because my help would have killed its will. I was just watching her hit and thought that we are banging in the same way. We are no less unhappy than this bee. Suddenly I was so furious with these snotty thoughts – I wanted to jump out of the window myself, but then returned to my human consciousness and understood that the window is our border”.

Earlier I liked various analogies, which seem to help to understand the topic, but later, when Alan did what he did, I found their dangerous meaning. Analogies are an attempt to manifest your thought for another person and they serve as an excellent way to explain, but any explanation is justification, even a scientific one is justification, which we recourse to admit our inability to understand a deeper truth than a shallow comparison of a person to a bee. But “I decided to go abroad and even if I go alone, so be it” and “I am used to being not understood by people, to inability of achieving synergy with them, although I expected another reaction from you, but you just stuck too deep in your thinking – lately I haven’t understood it at all”.

Ursula

Following my spiritual weakness, I agreed to think about my participation in the mission, although I was sure of my resounding refusal, again, due to my cowardice – contemplation of a faint-hearted philosopher was much nicer to me than useless bravado of newly-minted knights, but inside I agreed to observe the project process and take part in its preparation. I also hoped that Alan would face the strict principles of his beloved, who would take decisive measures in order to nip this project in the bud. Ursula. Incredibly skinny, a bit taller than Alan and with an eagle face. She was a real stalker in life, a strategist in communication, a curious child in thinking, and in my imagination was always presented as an amazon grown up in the wild forests abroad the island. Her original light mannerism shifted my understanding of beauty, and I started learning to find charm in all faces – both men’s and women’s, gradually removing the layers of sociality and intellectuality from genuine features, which have the traces of the life which moves parallelly with our social fate. That face, in which Ursula created her own kingdom with steadfast principles, felt in all her caprices, which I observed beyond the gate of their relationship. She spent most of her life in that kingdom, thus making the public feel the absence, where we can easily guess the arrogance, egotism and even the lack of intellect or – what is even worse for a social human – originality.

Symbolics of a social human is the most developed branch of science, of which nobody even speaks, because one swims in it like a fish in water or as an experienced comedian in the world of human vices. This symbolics fills our minds, which yearn for a real human, but cannot accept him, so we invent notions which, as we think, accurately describe a human soul – selfishness, avarice, gluttony and so on. But let us imagine that a man considers himself kind and in the moment of distraction forgets to leave a tip in a wonderful restaurant, where he had a date with a woman, who, following even a more ancient science than the symbolics of a social human, starts to rebuke him with her look, and he, not suspecting the mysterious conclusions, which circle around his head like a halo, constantly reminds himself of his kindness.

And the broken process of mutual trust makes her think about her companion’s greed, and him, starting to feel light detachment, think about insufficient effort that he makes. He begins to show what best he considers in himself – kindness, and on the peak of mutual misunderstanding, she declares him cheap, and he – because of the eternal man’s weakness in front of a woman – starts to justify himself not understanding what the reason of this deduction is, implanting the opinion that he is cheap into himself, and that kindness is the reason of his meanness, and he himself is the meanness in its genuine sense, as if descended from Giotto’s frescos, and, to cut this image out of his heart, our hero turns to the divine power of god Susanoo’s legendary blade, but in fact he cuts the way back to himself and begins to live in an illusory world of a “social human”, where the abyss between opinions of different people is smaller than the abyss between a thought and one person’s thought of a thought. In this world of Giotto’s images, we rather tend to believe the others than ourselves, and so people’s exterior attitude to us is so contagious: someone’s distorted fantasy or their genius is closer to us than comprehension of our shortages or our genius. And, as Little Prince, we are thrown to the different planets of human vices – that is how the symbolics of a social human works.

But if we want to return to our inner empire, we will need Ursula’s power, who had a natural talent not to notice this strange symbolics, and so had to find her principles and create her notions. To tell Ursula about his idea, Alan called me on the pretext of going to the cinema together. After the film (I can’t remember which one), he shared his idea.

– You are an absolute fool! – she replied to his offer.

– I will take you.

– Thank you, you are quite thoughtful. Might we have a baby and take him with us? Or better, I will become pregnant and give birth right there – he will be the first child born abroad. I like your aspirations not to become a bore but don’t be an idiot – at least you need a decent plan.

– We’ll do it. See, it is our possibility to wade to the unknown. People have strived for that in all times. Right now in front of us is a phenomenon which has already changed lives of all people, and if we don’t learn to be friends with it, to understand it, we will all soon die of boredom. We will build an ideal society of idiots. How can one think of an ideal society when we are on verge of a super-breakthrough? Especially when the government gives money to anybody who wants to go there.

After the film we were sitting in a small café. Observing Alan, when he was presenting Ursula his points, I felt uneasy of my presence next to their electric looks. And I thought that the birth of “divine” and “cosmic” in a man’s mind has the same way as giving a woman her mental shape. In a man’s mind, a woman is always in the process of evolution and objectification – in the process very similar to art, so a man, to a greater degree, creates but not perceives a woman. At first, he senses only a light spirit of dissimilarity between these angels and his own vicious entity, which, contrary to fallacy, is shown since infancy. A woman’s spirit has no body, or rather, a woman’s body shell is only its temporary shelter as well as her clothes, environment in which she lives, and so, a man gives the same sensual look to many women, seeing nothing reprehensible in it and being afraid to enter the area of any of them, not to induce his own vice in his own fantasies. Studying his fixations, a man loses his will, so what we call “vice” starts to live its own life, assembling a wonder-woman as a Florentine mosaic – from different parts of woman’s ontology. But gradually, a particular woman begins to form its own material planet in a man’s mind, which leads to a light gradient between the perceptions of different women, starting to manifest its difference between various soul angels. And here emerge nagging disadvantages, which deprive particular women of their female spirit, and they immediately fall into the world where our material vice lives, so the objectification of female passes through the research of the women who a man doesn’t like – a man protects his angel’s image for a long time from these whores of the material world, that’s why he wastes his quite real time on unworthy women (with his actions or thoughts), but finds this image only in details unable to assemble the wholesome fantasy. Gradually, a man ceases to have energy for the continuous and creative task, which paves the way for the dependence on particular relics, who jealously protect a female spirit in the very woman’s body and behaviour – these relics exist due to the difference from a man’s anthropology, so, a man has literally “kind” feelings to the tags of femininity, but eventually, every woman is objectified because of the presence of the human in her – simple wishes, jealousy and other vicious thoughts, as our human is initially connected not to high ideals but to vices, so any human community unites on the basis of common vices but not aims. This process of objectification happens continuously and with each perceived woman, so “an angel” stops being an aim and becomes a method of a woman’s perception – a benchmark for those women whom he likes, and gradually such criteria as “she was charming” step to the background if they don’t satisfy a man’s fetish, because a vice is a vessel for fantasy, which ceases immediately as soon as a man starts to perceive a woman-person (a woman’s main enemy to a man’s mind). A man can quite satisfy himself with such a woman but only temporarily – as well as with flashes of comprehension, which give us motivation to change only for a short period. Desire is not an aim but a milestone that triggers our thoughts and they, languishing in our mind, invent complicated ways to satisfaction, and when we try to reject our vicious desires, we actually return to our initial desire, which demands not satisfaction but maintenance. Isn’t it the same with divine?

Afraid to lose the draft of thought and deciding to interrupt their argument a little, I asked for paper and a pen, and Ursula gave me her sketchbook which Alan had presented to her trying to make her show her creative spirit, and unexpectedly for me, Alan snatched it from her hands – I had never noticed such sharp movements in him, but I definitely understood that it was the time for me to leave. Only a few days later I learned from Alan that the beginning of this project became the end of their relationship but it didn’t influence his wild intention.

After what happened to Alan, Ursula told me for the first time that he had been beating her, and once again I became assured that violence is not flapping arms. To me, thoughts about mind and violence always went side by side, and I think that the thoughts of violence have more metaphysical nature than people tend to think. These ponderings were caused by my observations that fighting people in a bar do not spread so much violence as a person who quietly weaves inner jealousy towards everybody but shows nothing with the actions. On the contrary, such a person is often courteous as was Alan.

– I think violence can never be justified. Never – even protecting close people. If you want to protect them, you should run away from any signs of violence but not to show protection when you are cornered… You know, he sometimes beat me.

– Why haven’t you ever told me about it?

– Because he was a good man. One day we were in a restaurant and he told me: “If I ever cheat on you, she wouldn’t be this kind of a chick. Nothing can be more stupid than a farm chick. I’d better sleep with a Boucheme’s bust, it seems to have more life”. He meant the students celebrating their graduation and behaving provocatively.

Ursula was crying while she was speaking, and I thought how women’s tears are different from men’s – a woman always cries about an unrealized reality and a man cries about a shattered dream. Walking along the street with her, I looked at the habitual environment, but Ursula’s tears coloured my soul even more than the rain. But no matter how habitual the word “soul” is, which we use in totally different contexts, we are quite far from understanding some rich vastness of our own depths, having a mixed nature of two substances: cosmic and our own – this mixture hints at the content of our thoughts, aspirations, feelings, which, on the one hand, are ultimately close to us, on the other hand, do not belong to us at all. And probably this formula is the best definition of ourselves with our intrinsic content, which bears the spirit of the wholesome space but not its dissolving parts, to which we got used to due to our imperfection – and for a fleeting moment it became clear to me that all the living was born beyond the space and then was mixed and put here. Some short time later, this moment of comprehension left only a dry formula: “was born beyond the space…” – generally meaningless because I can peer into this combination of words infinitely but cannot develop that short moment of comprehension – it should be looked for again.

A much more fertile effect was made by the flash of comprehension as it lit my thoughts about violence – this sweet phenomenon, which saturates thoughts and dissolves the pillars of our morality with its juice of madness. We become confused in our reasoning but it is pleasant to think about violence on a person who angers and irritates our outlook, trickling on the sides of the mind. A real danger makes you defend, search for ultimate ways to safety not allowing to invent violence but a light air of cruelty appears only in calm and unagitated thoughts which got used to loneliness – ripening of these violence sprouts is only possible on the ground of calm dissolution when they become the only joy of the soul and the coziness of detachment from the outer world intrinsic to violence, but a light dissonance with this world can make violence break away. It is worth thinking what is this musical instrument whose play attracts Muramasa’s demonic blade, famous for the fact that if it is not used to kill all the living, it will kill the owner of the blade – this is the choice of any mature knight of violence: either to destroy all the world or to destroy oneself, so the extremes of a soul are the main source of mind for such a knight, but this sword is not attracted by fierce sounds of real force, as violence is not possible against force – not in this world. No, only weak groans of a victim attract knights of violence, and as soon as, by the will of fate, he sees a weak point in the defense of a living being, he attacks instantly: as soon as he sees a weak point in a soul, he will see a victim in a victim.

All these thoughts combined not because of my topical attraction to violence, but of true sadness, which I felt in Ursula’s soul. Suddenly, she remembered her childhood:

– I remember my dad being drunk – sad spectacle. He was a weak man like maybe any alcoholic. You know, I think women don’t understand women just like men don’t understand them. I don’t understand how my mother could love him for so many years. He beat her – not much – but I thought I would never get in such a situation. But Alan wasn’t an alcoholic. By the way, father called me when he learned about this story. First time in eight years. I was so reluctant to talk to him that said that I forgive him for everything. In my childhood I also thought a lot about the border. And I promise – one day I will get beyond it. Although I refused…

(While Ursula was speaking, I became distracted again – my attention was drawn to a ray of the Sun, which thrusted through a sakura branch and cast an impressive shadow on Ursula’s face, lightening her smooth temple, where a little blood vessel appeared, sanctifying her image in a new way. Now she seemed a real warrior similar to those who built our island brick by brick— I think they were real heroes. This little bump on her temple became the personification of this heroism. I imagined her in a thick tropical forest – I read about such places in a Dezder’s book. Around her were the plants of all kinds, flowers of attractive forms and huge insects. I didn’t think long about her condition because she basically didn’t like to think for a long time. Her look fell on a vaguely-noticeable path, on which she rushed gradually understanding that she was wearing a fighting costume similar to a spacesuit – just less voluminous and more functional. She had a sword on her waist, and she saw a convocation of huge eagles shadowing all the blue space with a minimum of thirty seven luminaries similar to the Sun. But she didn’t have time to think about it – unknown energy within pushed her forward, and every move brought her incredible pleasure and her look constantly met fascinating images around. Suddenly, there was a ravine in front of her but with her inner energy she felt that she could fly to the other side, and with all her fury she jumped over this gorge. Landing on the other side she found herself in a bamboo grove and continued her run towards the waterfall noise, slashing green shafts on her way with a blade. Running out of the grove, she was in front of the rock with a cave in it, and she forwarded through the rocky gaps, and the waterfall noise deafened her more and more – minutes later she saw the ferocious streams of water, crashing ahead, and the gush of wind pushed her through the dense wall of water, and with her blade she flew to the turquoise sea with a fleet of ships made of stone – or, what looked like stone. Falling close to the sandy shore, Ursula soon saw an unequal battle of a small squad. A group of people in the same costumes and with the same swords as Ursula’s were fighting against a constantly growing wave of lizard-like three-eyes dogs. Each had a red mark on a forehead – some symbol. Ursula immediately joined the battle revealing yet new opportunities for her sword.)

– Sorry, I was thinking about your words on violence. Can you repeat?

– I said I would definitely go abroad. What were you thinking about?

– If you went abroad, you would definitely meet three-eyed dogs and you would be dressed as an amazon-warrior but in a spacesuit.

– Oh no. By the way, my father liked such fantasies. As did Alan.

After Alan’s act, I fell in love with Ursula: as if the yet unknown locks opened for me. Later, analyzing my first infatuation, I understood that it was this dialogue which made me fall in love with her. So much warmth cannot fit into a complex fetish or bright vanity. Warmth likes simplicity, ignorance and innocence. Warmth doesn’t like impressions, and light wind of love, making you worship human, is felt at the moment when you want to change yourself and reality around least of all – at the moments of acceptance. Or love pierces through your skin and makes you accept, or acceptance lets love enter – in any case, this light feeling of infatuation is present constantly and is reflected in the surrounding objects not with bright impressions but with the meaning of these very things. Such a dialogue can transfer you into your childhood room, where for the first time in your life you could not fall asleep because you became obsessed with a thought of a difference between a woman’s body and your own and of an existence of a large number of various types of women, which hide a desire unknown to you. And to perceive this unknown phenomenon, you, surprisingly, don’t start to study it but begin to think about the diversity of the Universe and think how you can become a whole world and to discover its mysteries. And our desires don’t grow older with us but always stay in their mysterious indefinity, and so, following her thought I understood that the area of human communication is a much darker place than a night forest, and to orientate there we are helped only by our experience of staying in this place, which has no gravity, and the space there is constantly being distorted, confusing a habitual perception of an already studied area of a stranger’s soul, and in search of stable landmarks we ourselves become more stable and empathic, noticing a live meaning in other people’s questions and judgements. Tears on Ursula’s face have already dried out and it now had an excited impression. Later I thought about my fantasy of Ursula. If I slice and dice everything, it will become obvious that a fantasy of Ursula The Amazon is maximally further from Ursula The Real but it describes her much better. As if in this fantasy one can recognize the very Ursula, her personality type. And vice versa, let’s try this:

“Ursula – female. Height – 1 m 70 cm. Likes tangerines. This woman has a balanced character. Quite educated, successfully graduated from the University”.

I have always thought that I knew Ursula well but now I definitely recollected a new person and understood that all this time I had known Ursula-Alan, and she, following her female nature, did not overshadow his originality where he was Alan The Rock for everybody. This is the element that Ursula The Real consists of for me, but Ursula The Amazon has a totally different content – exactly the one that belongs to Ursula The Real, who I can see now with a temple full of life and ambition. My fantasy of Ursula might be only my fantasy, but what is so important in her that helps me to acquire in my perception a more material Ursula and to reveal for myself her worldview?

I can only say that this fantasy made me fall in love with Ursula. I confessed in my feeling some months after what had happened, when we were sitting on the main keeper of Hoici’s history – the old and now totally tattered red couch on the roof of my house in the twilight, which in the childhood allowed creatures from another reality into my soul and took my sleep away, in return enriching my imagination with novel sensations, which, together with my confession, are now starting to burst into from the depth of my childhood yearnings towards the new shining of my dream. It is good that this couch was becoming more tattered, otherwise I would become scared that nothing is changing in this world and there is no use for me to count on new success – it might overlive me but it will definitely die one day, having told its story of “true sadness”. I fell in love long before this event but this feeling was hidden from my own mind with the layers unknown to me.

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