I'm lying alone in nature, under my favorite pine tree ....in the distance of the sea
I took a book and a notebook with me..... I've been reading again since early morning, again with a book in my hands! And so from day to day, since childhood! I have lived half my life in some non-existent world, among people who have never been, invented, worrying about their destinies, their joys and sorrows, as if they were my own. having bound himself to the grave with Goethe,
Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Thomas Mann, Kafka, Maugham, Stendhal, Shakespeare, Dostoevsky; Hesse, Socrates and Julius Caesar, Hamlet and Dante, Gretchen and Chatsky, Onegin, Ophelia, Pechorin and Natasha Rostova..y etc.
; ; ; ; How can I now sort out the real and fictional companions of my earthly existence? How to separate them, how to determine the extent of their influence on me?I read, lived by other people's inventions, and nature... horses, flies, bumblebees, birds, clouds—everything lived its own, real life.
And so I suddenly felt it and woke up from the book obsession, threw the book aside and with surprise and joy, with some new eyes I look around, acutely see, hear, smell - most importantly, I feel something extraordinarily simple and at the same time extraordinarily complex, that deep, wonderful, the inexpressible things that exist in life and in myself and that are never properly written about in books.
While I was reading, changes were secretly taking place in nature. It was sunny, festive; now everything is dark, quiet. Clouds and clouds gradually gathered in the sky.. Warm, soft smells of distant field rain. I thought about myself and my life.
Goethe wrote that he was happy for seven minutes in his whole life! I still have ten minutes of happiness of my whole life since childhood..there are so few happy meetings in the world!
What a joy to exist! Only to see, at least to see only this smoke and this light. If I didn't have arms and legs and I could only sit on a bench and look at the rising sun, then I would be happy with it. Only one thing is needed — to see and breathe. Nothing gives such pleasure as paints…
We always just remember about happiness. And happiness is everywhere. Maybe this is it — Here is this forest, silence, And clean air...and a light wind in my face.
A woman passed by, she was carrying a bush to plant..the woman looked at me and asked, "what am I doing here alone and what am I writing here?"
I didn't expect her to ask me..I didn't expect to be pulled out of my thoughts... and I was stupidly silent from confusion...
And she was walking and smiling....
what is she happy about?
Only by the fact that she lives in the world, that is, she does something most incomprehensible in the world. Everything was quiet, silent..only one bird sings alone... She sings alone — slowly brings out playful trills. Why, for whom? Is it for yourself, or for the life that this small forest has been living for a hundred years? Soon, probably, this woman will plant her bush and it will bloom, and it will seem that it is not for nothing, but for someone and for something.
but also to be silent..
...it is an eternal torment to be forever silent, not to speak just about what is truly yours and the only real thing that requires the most legitimate expression, that is, a trace, embodiment and preservation at least in the word!for you, Diana