* Написала я текст... И прекрасный человек из Тель-Авива помог мне его достойно перевести на английский.
Получилось интересно.
*Translated from Russian*
What is love? - I have often been asking myself, and I still do.
The most complex problem of the universe. It’s definitely not a copybook material. It’s unsaid and yet unsayable. The whole ages have gone into writing about love, and then about love some more.
Sometimes, those who write about love have never experienced the feeling first-hand. So they invite their own version of love and lie about it on the pages of their books. This lie is widely believed and endorsed by young hearts, that start to think that’s what love should look like. Love letters, flowers dried as a reminder of a happy date, pretty words, serenades below the window. When they encounter something similar, they begin to call it love immediately. They reach for it with their skinny hands, spend all of their strength trying, then lie down broken to myriad shards like some glass-case. Soulless, hollow, broken, slaughtered. We all seek that feeling we have read about back at school. Those quiet evenings, and all of us – all of us believe this is how it should be. But how could we fathom the real love? That eternal feeling dangerously bordering on death? Or that momentary weakness when our very nature wishes to cry out I’M IN LOVE? And then we fail to understand, how could it be, if the morning after is empty. What is that weightless truth, that cannot be expressed, either in words, in pictures, or in sounds of music?
Mayhaps, that is God Himself? God unseen, and indescript, and when they try to depict him, he’s different in each case: sometimes, he’s a thin and famished human, sometimes, a bright red-gold apparition? Is love a heavy black cross full of thorns and needles? Or a road of roses touched by a refreshing morning dew? Or a flame, a flame eating everything in its path: people, books, houses. Houses. Houses burn and become clots of ash.
We have all seen many kinds of love. One that burns you with passion, that leaves only pain after it’s gone, that doesn’t let you sleep, turning all of your thoughts into a burning flame that destroys that tower you’ve been building for so long down there at your solar plexus. And one that brings you up from your knees, and dries your eyes with its warm, pale, velvet hands. It elevates you so high, right to the sun, and then begins to expire slowly behind the stormclouds of your life, it disappears without a trace,gradually is solving somewhere in the daily routine. And one that is unknown, and maybe unknowable, like the depths of another man’s soul. And one you are already well-acquainted with. You stray from your path, you stray, and yet you come the right way yet again.
On your way home, like a homeless puppy, you meet strangers’ eyes and ask silently – maybe you are the one? Their eyes look through you, they don’t notice your question. You hide under the rain, lonely, and it washes your tears away, and thus your salt runs to the sea.
Have you ever cried in the rain? It’s the best kind of crying – you can do it in public, and nobody will pay attention. Your tears merge with the raindrops and the water hides everything, your weakness, your suffering.
You turn your face to the raindrops and... laugh, your hot tears washed away by a cold heavenly water.
And you whisper – I’d love to love and to be found...