#баловство
#trappedintheamberofthismoment
#jazzybits
Power lines have always held a strong fascination over me, but I've never really thought why. I would usually attribute my fondness to the thrill of finally seeing an open space out of a train window, especially after staring at a moving wall of birches for the better part of an hour, and lo! what a space would that be! A swath of freedom between the density of trees; a path fit for the pilgrimage of giants. And there they go, stomping solemnly with their filigreed steel feet, carrying on their shoulders the thin snake that binds the world together, humming to themselves in the deepest of basses.
Yet it was this glorious, snowed-in alabaster of a January that got me reminiscent. A while ago, my family used to live just outside of the city. I remember riding an old dirty car for ages until I couldn't count the streetlamps anymore and we would reach several quads of five-storey concrete houses. I remember a shop that would sell long strings of fizz candy which I never could convince my parents to buy (sometimes, I still laugh at how I could have anything in the world as long as it contained zero fizz candy or Zuko drink mix). Outside of that, empty wilderness stretched as far as a four-year-old's eye could see. I remember a sunny day in a January as snowy and white as this one: my mother put me onto a sled and dragged me along a barely visible path toward a nearby village to buy some fresh milk. She might as well have taken me to Heaven, with nothing but sunshine and blinding whiteness, punctuated by a pine here and there. And suddenly there it was, higher than Mom, higher than the pines (oh, I've climbed some pines by that age): up went the lattice of the tower, down came the ominous, sonorous hum of the power line. The structure stood firm against the swirling tide of clouds, its massive arms spread in greeting for its sister that watched over the horizon and passed the salute onward into the distance.
I still dream of being a funambulist, of running along the wires with a postman's bag full of news and gossip for those lonely towers out in the fields. I'm still thankful to the power lines for showing me there's more in the world than piles of snow around forbidden candy. I still can't help but raise a hand in a friendly hello to every giant I come across.
#trappedintheamberofthismoment
#jazzybits
Power lines have always held a strong fascination over me, but I've never really thought why. I would usually attribute my fondness to the thrill of finally seeing an open space out of a train window, especially after staring at a moving wall of birches for the better part of an hour, and lo! what a space would that be! A swath of freedom between the density of trees; a path fit for the pilgrimage of giants. And there they go, stomping solemnly with their filigreed steel feet, carrying on their shoulders the thin snake that binds the world together, humming to themselves in the deepest of basses.
Yet it was this glorious, snowed-in alabaster of a January that got me reminiscent. A while ago, my family used to live just outside of the city. I remember riding an old dirty car for ages until I couldn't count the streetlamps anymore and we would reach several quads of five-storey concrete houses. I remember a shop that would sell long strings of fizz candy which I never could convince my parents to buy (sometimes, I still laugh at how I could have anything in the world as long as it contained zero fizz candy or Zuko drink mix). Outside of that, empty wilderness stretched as far as a four-year-old's eye could see. I remember a sunny day in a January as snowy and white as this one: my mother put me onto a sled and dragged me along a barely visible path toward a nearby village to buy some fresh milk. She might as well have taken me to Heaven, with nothing but sunshine and blinding whiteness, punctuated by a pine here and there. And suddenly there it was, higher than Mom, higher than the pines (oh, I've climbed some pines by that age): up went the lattice of the tower, down came the ominous, sonorous hum of the power line. The structure stood firm against the swirling tide of clouds, its massive arms spread in greeting for its sister that watched over the horizon and passed the salute onward into the distance.
I still dream of being a funambulist, of running along the wires with a postman's bag full of news and gossip for those lonely towers out in the fields. I'm still thankful to the power lines for showing me there's more in the world than piles of snow around forbidden candy. I still can't help but raise a hand in a friendly hello to every giant I come across.
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Эту запись оставил(а) на своей стене Егор Юрескул
