Proletarian over the nest of the cuckoo She had everything. A new life every second. Each of the 365 new days. New shoes to go around the asphalt pictures in a circle. New Paris, painted in orange colors. She had everything. Love, on the stretch from the heart to the old cafe "On the carved corner." Unread letters and blue sky reflected in his pupils. She had everything. Naive hopes that cut into her heart, speeding up his rhythm, not allowing him to breathe full of trepidation and sweet fear. Desirable asphyxia. She had so much that even death was compensated and eliminated, frightened by the abundance of momentary magic she believed in with childish total confidence. There are no real deaths in fairy tales. She had a fairy tale hidden in a deep pocket of a motley dress. In the false pockets of a light cloak. On bookshelves, lost between folios. She had a fairy tale in the smell of perfume, in the magic of touch and quick kisses. She had a fairy tale in her breaths and exhales. Just was.
He had nothing. The past, which was abolished by years spent in prison. The future, which is so frightening to look at, from ignorance and inadequacy. The present, which must be woven from the “before” and the “after”, firmly standing on the foundation of hope and faith in it. He had nothing. Love that teased, approaching, then moving away, but reminding again and again of its impossibility. “You are bored with me. I have no education”. He had no confidence in his future or the future of his country. He had no country or homeland. And there was no peace, neither in the soul nor around. He had no right to make a mistake, either. And going down the line from zero to infinity, going to the sky, to the very place where the heaven is bright and all possibilities, he said that he was “not a beatnik, and not defeated.” He believed that energy could come from nothing. But he had no education, and he was wrong. He had nothing and no right to make a mistake. And the future that he was so afraid of consumed him, destroyed, destroyed, reminded him once again that he had nothing and can not be. Nothing at all. Including lives.
A non-childish tale of contrasts. Yin and Yang lovers with burning teenage eyes. Life every second and death until the end of the universe. A tape that changes color from multicolor to monochrome, as if hinting at the possibility of living using all the colors from the palette of life, but again sobering by returning to the stingy and frowning shades of gray. No, dear friend, you will always be a black and white sketch. The muscles of the face relax, the look stops, the cold slides needles across the body. On the other side of death there is no love for the dead or for the rest of us to breathe. From her point of view, we are all defeated. All of them are in that “cut corner.” Death does not believe in fairy tales - too often disappointed.
And the fragile girl will still believe in them, mentally rereading letters she has never seen, dreaming of her uneducated, undefeated prince. Hoping that he is dead, so long as he is not happy without her, and immediately assuring himself that he is alive, of course, and is already striving towards her with the full heart of new stories, already halfway to her orange Paris, with a frozen kiss on twitching lips.
But Paris is still gray, fairy tales remain locked in cages of old tomes on bookshelves, and the prince proves to be just a stupid teenager finding his best future in the sudden cold embrace of death. Rebellion against the world is always a rebellion against itself. We're all defeated.