#jazzybits
#impossiblecool
#баловство
I believe the proper term for what I’ve been experiencing was “tunnel vision”. Whenever I would look sideways, I saw walls: walls of corrugated aluminum, stretching into the distance like bowels of a great metallic beast; walls covered with polished marble plates, just like the ones my stepfather used to sell so long ago, when I would fear nothing and dare anything; walls of dirty yellow and dirty green, the two colors forced on us by History itself, being the two cheapest dyes when prices still mattered for local governments. Long nights in front of glowing screens and a generally self-destructive lifestyle have ruined my eyesight, but in the soft light of Moscow’s ambiguously-colored skies the objects moving toward me assumed an unfamiliar clarity. I looked ahead, almost afraid to face the walls rising to my sides; I plugged in small black earphones to shut off the dry puffing of exhaust pipes and a street musician playing some 30-year old hit song on a guitar captured and enslaved and mistreated in his quixotic quest for freedom and protest. People walking down the street opened their mouths in silent conversation, but seemed to be scatting, delighted, to the jazzy rhythms flowing through my head. I joined a queue at a drugstore to pick up something for the sore throat, but something made me throw away the numbered ticket and run. Between walls of glass display cabinets screaming unnatural names of pills and clumsily-rhymed slogans at my back, out into the warm rain and the relative safety of an umbrella. Joyful scatting passsers-by gave way to an endless stream of busy-looking subway passengers that seemed to push aside the ubiquitous walls, and the empty space of the square hit me full-on, leaving scraps of my consciousness scattered across the granite flagstones, waiting to be swept by janitors and wind; just as the now soulless automaton that was my body shambled on and admired the streetlamps standing firm in the gathering thunderstorm.
#impossiblecool
#баловство
I believe the proper term for what I’ve been experiencing was “tunnel vision”. Whenever I would look sideways, I saw walls: walls of corrugated aluminum, stretching into the distance like bowels of a great metallic beast; walls covered with polished marble plates, just like the ones my stepfather used to sell so long ago, when I would fear nothing and dare anything; walls of dirty yellow and dirty green, the two colors forced on us by History itself, being the two cheapest dyes when prices still mattered for local governments. Long nights in front of glowing screens and a generally self-destructive lifestyle have ruined my eyesight, but in the soft light of Moscow’s ambiguously-colored skies the objects moving toward me assumed an unfamiliar clarity. I looked ahead, almost afraid to face the walls rising to my sides; I plugged in small black earphones to shut off the dry puffing of exhaust pipes and a street musician playing some 30-year old hit song on a guitar captured and enslaved and mistreated in his quixotic quest for freedom and protest. People walking down the street opened their mouths in silent conversation, but seemed to be scatting, delighted, to the jazzy rhythms flowing through my head. I joined a queue at a drugstore to pick up something for the sore throat, but something made me throw away the numbered ticket and run. Between walls of glass display cabinets screaming unnatural names of pills and clumsily-rhymed slogans at my back, out into the warm rain and the relative safety of an umbrella. Joyful scatting passsers-by gave way to an endless stream of busy-looking subway passengers that seemed to push aside the ubiquitous walls, and the empty space of the square hit me full-on, leaving scraps of my consciousness scattered across the granite flagstones, waiting to be swept by janitors and wind; just as the now soulless automaton that was my body shambled on and admired the streetlamps standing firm in the gathering thunderstorm.
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Эту запись оставил(а) на своей стене Егор Юрескул
