IRINA NOVIKOVA

Ghosts ...

Ghosts …
When the one who dies, they do not forget him, they do not regret him and do not cry, he only passes through their souls and is forgotten, like all dreams or desires … he only only excites their surface, but not their depth …
Black obloko
They moved quickly and captured more and more space, more and more surface, it flew with great speed and was kind of alive, but chased away birds, hedgehogs, snakes and everything that his dark paws could reach … who didn’t want to get into his paws and it was possible to perish, it was like a knight or a dead man … It was his guarantee to chase away! …

Inner voice
You are only one, one against everyone and everything, and you must remember this! Do not forget! Put your visor down on your eyes and draw your sword and go into battle! You must remember this and trust no one! .. Trust and goodness will ruin you! …
So his inner voice spoke to him, and perhaps a dead man, dark and incomprehensible and almost a shadow, who was he himself? By whom? If you once lived … And if you did not live … Spirit? … Or what is secret and incomprehensible …

Memory
Paper is like sharp rocks that cut right through your fingers … What a pity that I died a long time ago and can no longer breathe and live …

Internal dialogue
When I was thirsty, I thought of a waterfall of cold water, fish crossing the depths of the ocean, fish with huge fins jumping out of the water and flying through the air, birds rushing through the storm and looking for food …
Memory
Golden ears, like flakes of snow soft and silky, touched my feet and hands, and it seemed to me that this home cat was lost on my legs or the neighbor’s dog was trying to do something to me, how wonderful life is when you live and breathe .. The clouds are floating across the sky, a distant roll of thunder, small raindrops on your skin … All this is as good!
Internal dialogue
When I wanted honey, I picked a blade of grass and chewed it, as grandfather’s horses do, these grass-eating machines chewed something all the time and were always hungry, from life or from the desire to know something, perhaps the grass gave them what some knowledge, like the old bell on which he rings, everyone always thinks that he has a secret, terrible and immense and that without his ring the sun will not rise, it will remain there in the ground, forever sung by underground inhabitants who will not let go it would shine if they were not frightened by the kllcolm ringing … When I was there alone in the meadow, it was so good and easy for me and I forgot about everything that could have bothered me before …
The bell and the ringer were whispering about something all the time, as if they did not want to reveal a long-standing secret …

Memory
I walked along the edge of the earth for a long time and would have fallen if it had not been for the eagle, he woke me up with a cry, I almost woke up from the slumber that tormented me and slightly bent over looked into the abyss, there was nothing but sand, golden in the sun … scary, sad, alive or dead … I felt joyful and I screamed, but I was so well aware of this, joyful … lost …

Internal dialogue
When I lost consciousness for the first time, there in the steppe, so as not to die from what came upon me, from grief and misfortune from everything that can be said to the priest in confession, because you cannot believe all this and start talking, because no one else God will not understand this and will not say, because other people are evil, bad and envious like animals … they become crippled and, but life wins, they grow overgrown with new escapes and are renewed and bloom even brighter … And me ..? .. When can I bloom? … Or rather I will die of all this grief .. From everything that happened to me, and the bell ringer no longer amuses me with his morning ringing, his rumble growing from afar develops into a joyful morning song, but now for me it is … Now it is a song sorrow and grief .. When will it all end? … Perhaps after death I will become a tree, tapim that no longer burns, but only silt and birds singing in the branches, living their song and morning sunrises … Who told me that I could be reborn ..? A priest? .. It seems not, but perhaps it was written in that book, and which was sold to me by a traveling merchant … The one who had the Bible and other books, many books and a lot of knowledge …? I am like that ocean that dried up evil forces in order to destroy all the fish … I am like that bird that can only scream helplessly in the sand … And how can I be …? How? .. How can one live on, when everything inside is burnt and withered, when even the last shoot is trampled and torn apart, when even everything is higher inside …

Memory
There is nothing beyond the darkness, not even death … There is only cold …