About nothing – It

There is nothing left to write about – so about nothing I will write. 

It was beautiful from the outside. Shiny – pearls and gold, diamonds on first sight but rotten from inside… like a corpse not yet fully decomposed…dying and dead both at once and at the same time. 

Every eye caught a glimpse of it and desires burned: possession and love, mixed and poured into flutes were consumed by their stingy souls like cocktails, making them wish for a piece of it. And a piece they’ve got, every one of them.

But every time they pierced the crystallised layer just to the spoiled core – expectations collapsed like a house of cards leaving them with an unfulfilled wish of an impossible dream: how beautiful everything could be. 

Nothing was – so about nothing I am writing. 

It was exquisite but it was dying, could she keep it alive? She dove into the depths for it and into the fires – everlasting, everburning, to drag it out and keep it alive. She risked everything she had and everything she would have, there was no past no future for her.  Imagining a past or a future without it was impossible to her, so drowning in the depths of the ocean or burning in the fires of hell was a means to an end.

nothing13

She knew it was hers, beautifully rotten and dying, just like she needed – tailored for her heart. She knew she was the soil for the spark to its metamorphosis. She risked everything because she knew what it was and what it will become, but only in her hands…so she kept reaching for it and never stopped.   

Beautiful right? But yet again a fairy tale that never was. There was nothing – and only about that, I will write. 

You are not the one who is oooh-so-pretty, nor are you oh-so-wrong or heartless. 

You are not gorgeous, nor are you ugly. 

You are not guilty, nor are you cruel. 

You’re not a heartbreaker. 

You’re not the kindest, nor are you the smartest or the dumbest. 

You are just someone, somewhere in between others, with them, just like them. 

It’s me and my mind, we made you special, made you all those things… relating to us. 

Everything in vain. 

We made you something that you were not, like a faulty machine, we miscalculate people. Maybe because we were raised with an excessive obsession for the romantic era or maybe we wanted to create something we always longed for. God knows but it’s a shame he’s absent for now, maybe forever so we won’t ever know.

But one thing I know, I am egocentric and I will be until I destroy myself to leave nothing behind – so I can continue to write about nothing. You should love me for that.

A.A.

Marks and tracks.

I wash my hands…

I’m scrubbing them down until the skin looks red…

Like I’m trying to get rid off a smell that nested into my pores … just like when you eat a smelly fish with your bare hands and no matter how much soap you use afterwards your hands still give off the scent of that particular fish you ate. 

Some things leave their marks more prominently than others and some just leave disasters after them. 7f302f8690bf67ee07f12a226f781d57

The smell in your hands that repels you now, was left of the food you once enjoyed so much that you emerged your fingers into it. 

The plaque build-up in your arteries…was once the cholesterol from those meals you enjoyed with your beloved. 

“How would you like your steak sir?” 

“Bloody”, I say… although knowing that a steak can’t be bloody, because there is no blood left in it after the slaughter. The red liquid in your medium-rare steak is myoglobin, carrying oxygen into the muscles. 

The waiter doesn’t know that, he just nods, and that’s okay… what matters is that my hands are clean and I’m about to enjoy a steak right before my disaster ends. 

I ask myself, how many disasters can one endure; how many times can one become a disaster; how many marks and tracks can one wear on their skin and soul until it’s too much and what is too much and what happens after “too much”? 

Do I need another disaster? 

Some things leave their marks more prominently and some just leave disasters after them.

The disaster that we are now… was once the joy we needed so much…

So In front of everything I stand now, undecided…jump into another disaster or end all the others at once.

We love to live but hate to die, although it is the same thing, we don’t realise. 

The death we fear, once was the life we loved so much. 

The itchy red skin is the price I have to pay for those clean hands…

The restroom, now nasty, full of blood….once was so clean and satisfying.
Not anymore. Everything is different now.

Just like this knife that once cut my steak so I could enjoy it, found itself sticking out of my carotid arteries now.

A.A.

Foie gras and stars. Фуа-гра и звезды. Ֆուա-գրա և աստղեր։

And yet every day I feed myself with my own, made up emotions to compensate for the lack of my soul.

Like a goose, down my throat, forcing every bit of it…intoxicating my already fatty liver with all those lies of how beautiful everything is or still can be.

But inherently waiting my turn to be slaughtered, ripped apart to spread my delicacy widely to every mouth that aches love and happiness. Little they know the contagiousness of my darkness will fatally satiate them.

I want to teach everyone how emptiness feels like. The devourer of worlds – the visitor we can’t escape.

IMG_1240Who pushes everyone from the heights of happiness into the ravine –  the higher they are the farther they fall, the harder the impact that crashes it all.

Stupid to believe in myths of happiness made up by the ego of our selfishness – without considering that one day we will pay the price, always, every time.

Enjoy! You still can – while I’ll do the right thing: sticking alongside my fellow wretched and broken people. We stare into the eyes of that myth and realize we don’t want to relive it – not because it wasn’t beautiful but because it was too beautiful to be real. The results dictate That it was an illusion, something that never was, with me as a witness.

If you could split my body with your hands, to have a quick look into my inners your sight would get absorbed into the blackness. Blackness that was born in a merge of anger and sadness, stellar nucleosynthesis, like a nuclear fusion of atomic nuclei – heavier than the heaviest ones. Making myself so dense that the little hope right in the middle of everything else was unable to sustain my own gravity.

So I implode and I collapse  – my soul gets sucked into the blackness where your sight follows – making you blind.

And from now on it only grows and everything near it won’t ever escape but just feed the hole inside me – until nothing’s left.

There is nothing left.

A.A.

Russian version:

И все же каждый день я питаюсь выдуманными самим собой эмоциями, компенсируя отсутсвие души.

Как гусь на откорм, запихиваю в глотку кусок за куском ложь о том, как все прекрасно, отравляя мою и без того ожиревшую печень.

А по сути, я просто жду своей очереди на убой: быть разорванным на части, чтобы нуждающиеся в любви и счастье могли полакомиться. Они и не подозревают, как заразительна моя тьма, и что она насытит их до смерти.

Я хочу всех научить, как ощущается пустота.

Невозможно избежать визита «пожирателя миров»- того, кто сталкивает каждого с высоты счастья в лощину. Чем выше находитесь, тем дольше падать- тем сильнее удар, разбивающий это все.

Глупо верить в миф о счастье, выдуманный нашим собственным эгоцентричным эго, не учитывая того, что однажды нам неизбежно придётся за это счастье заплатить. Наслаждайтесь! Вы все ещё можете. А я сделаю правильный выбор: держаться стороны убогих и сломленных. И мы таращимся в глаза этому мифу и понимаем, что не хотим пережить его вновь не потому ,что это не было прекрасно, а потому, что это было слишком прекрасно, чтобы быть правдой… это была иллюзия, о чем мне диктует результат… иллюзия, не способная быть моим свидетелем.

Если бы вы хотели взглянуть на мое нутро, открыв мое тело голыми руками, то ваш взгляд бы поглотила чёрная темнота. Чернота, рождённая при слиянии гнева и грусти- звёздный нуклеосинтез, как ядерное слияние атомных ядер- тяжелейших из тяжелых. Моя грузность настолько густа, что маленькая надежда посреди всего этого не в силах выдержать моей собственной гравитации.

Поэтому я взрываюсь и распадаюсь. Мою душу засасывает в ослепляющую черноту, за которой следует ваш взгляд.

Впредь эта чёрная дыра внутри меня будет только разрастаться и поглощать все, что окажется поблизости до тёх пор, пока не останется ничего.

Ничего не осталось.

А.А.

Translation: K.I.

Armenian version:

Եվ ամեն օր ինքս ինձ եմ կերցնում իմ մտացածին զգացմունքները, որպեսզի փոխհատուցեմ հոգուս բացակայությունը։ Սագի պես դեպի կոկորդս հրելով դրանց ամեն մի պատառը… թունավորելով իմ արդեն իսկ ճարպոտ լյարդն այն ստերով, թե որքան գեղեցիկ է հիմա ամեն ինչ կամ դեռևս կարող է լինել։

Բայց և բնազդաբար սպասում եմ սպանդի ու բզկտվելու իմ հերթին, երբ իմ ախորժելի համը կառնեն սեր ու երջանկություն տենչող բոլոր շուրթերը։ Նույնիսկ չեն էլ գիտակցում, թե որքան վարակիչ է իմ մթությունը և որ մինչև վերջին շունչը կհագեցնի նրանց։

Ես ցանկանում եմ բոլորին ցույց տալ, թե ինչ է դատարկություն զգալը։ Աշխարհների կործանողը ` այցելուն, որից անհնար է փախչել:

Հենց նա է, ով երջանկության բարձունքներից ցած է հրում բոլորին դեպի անդունդ. որքան բարձր են նրանք, այնքան ավելի ցած են ընկնում և այնքան ավելի ուժեղ են զգում այդ ամենը ջախջախող հարվածը։

Անմիտ է հավատալ մեր եսասիրությամբ հյուսված երջանկության առասպելներին առանց նույնիսկ հաշվի առնելու, որ մի օր վճարելու ենք դրա գինը։ Եվ այդպես է միշտ, ամեն անգամ։

Վայելի՛ր։ Դու դեռևս կարող ես․ մինչդեռ ես կվարվեմ ինչպես ճիշտ է ՝ ապրելով հարազատ դարձած թշվառների եւ կոտրվածների հարեվանությամբ, նայելով նմանատիպ առասպելներին եւ գիտակցելով, որ չենք ուզում վերապրել դրանց, և բնավ այն պատճառով չէ, որ բավարար գեղեցիկ չէին, այլ որ շատ ավելի գեղեցիկ էին իրական լինելու համար: Արդյունքները թելադրում են, որ դա ընդմենը պատրանք էր, մի բան, որը երբեք չի էլ եղել, ես էլ՝ ձեզ վկա:

Եթե կարողանայիք ձեռքերով մարմինս երկատել եվ բացել զուտ ներսս տեսնելու համար, ձեր հայացքը կկլանվեր սևության մեջ: Սևություն՝ ծնված զայրույթի եւ տխրության միաձուլումից, աստղային միջուկային սինթեզ, ինչպես ատոմային միջուկների միաձուլումը՝ ավելի ծանր, քան ամենածանրերը։ Ինքս ծանրանալով այնքան, որ ամեն ինչի կենտրոնում գտնվող փոքրիկ հույսը այլևս ի վիճակի չէր պահպանել իմ ձգողականությունը:

Ահա իմ ներպայթյունն ու փլուզումը, իմ հոգին ներծծվում է սևության մեջ, որին է հառում նաև ձեր հայացքը ՝ կուրացնելով ձեզ։

Այսուհետ այն միայն աճում է, եւ նրանից ոչինչ էլ երբեք չի փախչում, այլ պարզապես դառնում է ներսիս անդուդը սնող կերակուր մինչև որ ոչինչ էլ չի մնա:

Ոչինչ էլ չկա:

Ա.Ա.

Translation: Y. H.

The Age of Loneliness

Do you know the feeling when you are ill, and you think that you know exactly what you have? 

And because you know what you have you don’t even go to the doctor, it will pass you think.

But it gets even worse with time and you have no choice to go to the doctor to get diagnosed. So you think what a waste of time, but still, you need to go so he can tell you the exact same thing that you think you know…

Finally, you go to the doctor and it’s fucked up…it’s far worse – and surprise surprise it’s something completely different than you thought. 

Well, it was the same thing with the people of the connected world, before their fatal depression struck sucking all the humanity out of their soul. 

Ok, let’s rewind. 

The illness I was talking about a second ago… let’s say it’s contagious and not only you’ve got it from others, but now you have it and you are giving it to others as well. It’s spreading like wildfire, like a plague it is.

Even some people who you love and hold dear are getting it from you, and if not from you than from the guy next door or the postman or whoever. They are changing fundamentally, becoming sick. Influenced. Like influenza but much more slow-rated, and very hard to diagnose.

Actually, let’s say, that the diagnosis hadn’t even appeared yet because this illness was hidden very very deeply, and it only decomposed your humanity, your sociability, your psyche very slowly and therefore it appeared normal for a while. It appeared normal because it was also happening to all the people around you, the majority at least.

At retrospect we can see that the age of loneliness started from the 1960s with the introduction of the seed of loneliness, which had to grow in the hearts of its ‘consumers’ yet, to contaminate them. The illness would spread like an endemic and after a while become epidemic.

The first non-scientific diagnosis paired with a virtual suicide dated from late 2018 and it sounds devastating: 

“We are lonely, even though we think that we aren’t. 

It’s not that we are lonely, it’s more like that we are alone, not realising it, not wanting to realise. 

We are surrounded by people who have sunk deeply into their phones and computers…their virtual life, sunk into the nothingness. 

We are staring into the abyss, looking at 1s and 0s, at information. Looking at images of other people while other people are looking back to ours, but with an endless gap between us. 

How many friends do we have? 1? 2? 500? 10.000? I don’t know, because the definition of ‘a friend’ became extremely flexible, undefinable. We create little windows into our lives and we let strangers look into it. We show them only what we want to show, only handpicked moments that meet all the ideally chosen criteria so they can get to know us like we would like to appear. We are trying to redefine ourselves into becoming our ideal self, but only in a virtual world because, in reality, we cannot.

The ideal of a lost reality. 

The handful of people who are next to us, do exactly the same thing like we do. We all create a perfect persona in a perfect world. 

How can a world where perfect moments are rare compete with a world where everything is perfect? It cannot.

Unfortunately, we live in a world far from perfect, so we found a way to hand pick all the perfect moments of this world just to store them into a created one, a perfect virtual world of our own. We show it then to the rest of the miserables, who try to do the same, creating a lie from both sides. Like in a social contract we promise each other: “I’ll believe in your lie if you believe in mine”. So we start believing in our own lies, the perfect little world like the cherry on top.

When time passes our perfect, virtual world grows, becomes filled with more and more moments, and more people get to know the perfect us, it becomes tempting and indispensable. It becomes us, it defines us. We start to merely exist in the real world with one purpose only: fill up the virtual one – so we can live in there, where everything is “perfect”. 

The couple of friends we have, who know more than our perfect side, are right next to us, but very absent, because they also have sunk into their own virtuality. The real moments with each other start to make place for the virtual ones, screens become faces, names become account-aliases.

We sit next to our friend with our perfect world right in our palms. We wake up next to our lovers and the first thing we do is visiting the perfect world, it’s an armlenght away.

We try to escape every moment that isn’t substantial in the real world, and everything not worth adding to our digital life isn’t substantial anymore. Every little thing that isn’t interesting enough in our real life we try to skip forward; we start to live from one tiny moment to another tiny moment and all the spaces inbetween those moments we try to replace with browsing the virtual one. 

We become a walking dead man with sporadic heart beats every now and then.

Boredom get’s filled with virtual excitement, with information. Something real gets replaced with something unreal. 

We forget that everything has its place and its function in life. Even though some things are not perfect nor interesting, nor are they fun or exciting, they are a part of our lives and form our personality. A lack of those things makes us distorted. We unlearn how to live, how to react to things like boredom, like pain; to the ordinary.

We unlearn to react to real situations filled with imperfect things.

We forget our real self, with all the ugly and imperfect sides. We lose the finesse of letting people know how we really live and how we really are. Thus we become lonely in the real world, trying to trick ourself that we are not.

We are different, we are alone and paradoxically we don’t let anyone near us. It can turn out to be imperfect.”

To be continued…

The Surrender – Капитуляция

Im powerless, no beautiful promises anymore.

I can’t do things that make you happy.

I’m exhausted, can’t come over or call to explain.

I’m broken, I’m empty now.

The antonym of dedication, that’s who I am, a synonym of emptiness, the realization of the word oblivion.

If I was everything once – now I am nothing, aimlessness.

So if you expect anything from me, than don’t. Because of all the colors I’m not even black, I’m transparent now.

I became the vacuum in space-time,

the anti matter in the darkness.

I’m the soul that doesn’t exist,

the God that isn’t there.

A.A.

Капитуляция

Я бессилен. Прекрасных обещаний больше нет.

Я не могу сделать тебя счастливой.

Я измучен. Не могу приехать или позвонить с объяснениями.

Я разбит, я пуст.

Антоним преданности и синоним опустошенности мирского забвения- вот кто я.

Если однажды я был всем, то сейчас я ничто, бесцельность.

Если ты чего-то ждёшь от меня- напрасно. Потому что из всех цветов я даже не чёрный. Я прозрачный сейчас.

Я превратился в вакуум в пространстве и времени, в антиматерию во тьме.

Я несуществующая душа, Господь, которого нет.

А.А.

Translation: K.I.

#memoirs #memoire #shortstory #writing

Men – Мужчины

Let me write this down because I don’t want to forget. 

The boy who turned into a man.

It’s been a while since he felt something else than indifference. Indifference and sorrow – the two constants wrapped around his soul.

But the day came, unexpected. And there it was, a short episode of joy mixed with sweat, running all over his body like goosebumps, making him laugh, in the middle of the night, stiffened, with every muscle contracted but relaxed at the same time. He laughed while she had all control over him – for a brief moment – watching from above. Like his goddess.

And yes men laugh, and they do cry too. Boys never cry they say, but that’s the difference between boys and men. Men do cry, in their sleep when they’re truly alone. And they never talk about it because every man has his own monsters, born and forged by his own mistakes. The mistake of them all is the excess. The “too much” that ruined them all.

Because they’ve seen a little too much. They did too much. They cared a little too much.
They lived and loved, just a little too much.

The scariest monster of all, that makes men cry, lives in dreams and thoughts changing boys into men, involuntary.

So he promised himself: never again.
But the day came, and there it was –
he laughed and watched, and every time he looked into those deep greens he was capable of making the same mistakes all over again, one last time: a deadly sweet mistake.

A.A.

Мужчины

Позвольте записать, чтобы не забыть.

Мальчик, превратившийся в мужчину.

Прошло много времени с тех пор, как он чувствовал что-либо, кроме безразличия. Безразличие и скорбь, обволакивающие его душу.

Но неожиданно пришёл день, момент счастья, смешанный с потом, растекающийся по всему телу, как мурашки, заставляя смеяться посреди ночи; одеревеневший момент в одновременно напряженных и расслабленных мускулах. Он смеялся в момент её контроля над собой, глядя снизу вверх. Как на божество.

Да, мужчины смеются, и да, они плачут.

Говорят, что мальчики не плачут. Но есть разница между мальчиком и мужчиной. Мужчины плачут во сне, в момент абсолютного одиночества. И они никогда не говорят об этом, ведь в каждом из них живет монстр, рождённый и выкованный чередой ошибок.

Их общая ошибка- избыток. То самое «слишком», разрушившее каждого из них.

Потому что они слишком многое видели. Слишком многое делали. Им было чересчур не все равно.

Они жили и любили. Немного чересчур.

Страшнейший монстр из тех, что заставляет мужчин плакать, живет в их мечтах и мыслях, превращая мальчика против его воли в мужчину.

Но пришёл день, когда он смеялся и наблюдал, и каждый раз, смотря в эти глубокие зеленые глаза, был способен вновь совершить ту же ошибку в последний раз. Смертельно- сладкую ошибку.

А.А.

Translation: K.I.