Everything I would say is a lie. I could criticise it only after death. I'll lie a little bit. We should decide if we live for lies or we lie for life.
Theatre. On the stage they act less than spectators. It is not Chekhov. It is not the reason. In the break banal bunk flows like water from the mouths of people. The stage is alive, not in the way as we live, truly, without necklaces, face powder, high-heels, cell phones, television and without mask. Their mask is livable, our life is a mask. Manna is streaming, manna. It disappears in the fog, it ends and dulls. And dies. But there are people who jump to catch it, hold it fast, embrace it tight and don't let it go. I jumped and a teardrop ran down my face.
Theatre. On the stage they act less than spectators. It is not Chekhov. It is not the reason. In the break banal bunk flows like water from the mouths of people. The stage is alive, not in the way as we live, truly, without necklaces, face powder, high-heels, cell phones, television and without mask. Their mask is livable, our life is a mask. Manna is streaming, manna. It disappears in the fog, it ends and dulls. And dies. But there are people who jump to catch it, hold it fast, embrace it tight and don't let it go. I jumped and a teardrop ran down my face.
Then I marched along with the others upwards, as if that boy didn't die on the stage, as if it wasn't real. "The team is standing to lose!"-I hear. And I still cannot believe it. The silkworm retires into its shell and dulls in its warmth. This shell is a shackle, voluntary and strong.
Short sentences, murmurs are quelled by the snow. Now I'm outside in the street, in the labyrinth of society, Minotaur is passing me, we are his mother, the father is the Earth. Then he also gets lost in the silence, only me who remains and writes...
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