The Day
von Margarita Lyubenova Kuznecova (Copyright)
She wanted something to happen, as always she wanted to change something. She was fed up with herself in her inconstant desires and now wanted a change in the others.
Now she wanted to change the surroundings, to move the buildings, to stop the traffic of the million-citizen city. Leaning her forehead against the window, hitting it over unequal intervals because of the uneven road, she was looking without seeing the familiar shells built by human brain and hands. The river-dark, muddy, flowing in directions, running without hurrying for anywhere confined in her stone bed-she wanted to change the river, to shape her like plasticine. How many times in her thoughts she had drowned herself in the river, how many times she was walking on the bridge calm and leapt, the muddy water swept her away, she saw the golden-brown color of the water, felt the witness over her whole body, sank down, felt the looks of all people-humans like her, felt the bitter taste of persihability and carrion, she was choking, suffocating, the air –she wanted the air. She started, there was no need to open her eyes to see she was drowning in her own consciousness, she knew it she was afraid of it. She feared her other personality (individuality) who also wanted change, last change, last layouts, last stroke. She was afraid of that change, didn’t want it, she was fleeing away, she tucked away her consciousness in the bright arches of the enchanting feeling of freedom, but after that her catastrophe, excited by the raving chaos.
She was looking, staring at the point which nobody defines, she saw everything else around the point but not the point itself. The taste of something forthcoming was striking the palate and stayed there for a while.
She was tired and felt her eyelids heavy-they were slowly closing the lachrymose liquid brought the misty veil, which was slowly enveloping everything in sight. She left herself to be overcome for annistan, but the fear-the fear not to fall in the nothingness of her consciousness made her keep her eyes open, she didn’t want the chaos of her own untidy consciousness to embrace her with its sticky tentacles sliding slowly but with the certainty (confidence) of the set purpose. The fatigue didn’t knock her body down, it produced sluggishness manifested as apathy-the last stage of the human soul, the last shelf-tucked so high, that had lost its features that lacked individuality, dusty and eaten by the creatures of the (decay) mortality, only they (it was only they) needed it because of the mere natural low-to survive. They were devouring her indifference (nonchalance, languor) greedily knowing. They would always have more of it for its quantity and quality was constant, it was tee only human feeling that didn’t change neither with time neither, in the space, nor according to the circumstances.
She was peaceful with this feeling, it didn’t arouse in her fear or joy, it didn’t make her modify her thoughts in order to feel bathed (soaked in herself in order to feel purified).It was there and she wanted it to be there to be able to continue her vegetative existence which was product of her lassitude to live “life of value”. And it happened, what she wanted happened as everything she wanted without preventing it. She wasn’t astonished. She wasn’t surprised, her indifference had reached its peak .As though she was a little bit bored with herself for everything she wanted always or almost everything happened. She saw the outer change, she saw it, the buses were diverted from their normal trajectory, chaos had fallen over, but quiet without panic, the million-citizen city had changed without stopping its rhythm. It had slowed down, had been diverted but the quivering of anxiety could not be sensed in the air of panic, total anxiety. And that was what she actually wanted. She wanted everything to be over, everything surrounding her to sink in a blink of the eye without unnecessary dramatic tension. She wanted it because she didn’t have the courage. The animal instinct of self-preservation always awoke on time. But it didn’t happen that time also. She didn’t feel thrill which was sweeter and apter to spill all over her body than tranquility. The tickle in her plexus kept pulsing, that gave her the calm, that she would be the spectator and at the same time the role – player (last role) in tragically comedian farce called “the surrender of lust”. .