Reality

    The feeling of flight - how wonderful it is! How good, freed from all viscous conventions, to feel yourself at the height again. Shimmering, flickering, the starry sky bursts into you and absorbs you from within. And you are no longer there. There is only a look that can see much further than the horizon. Because there is no horizon either.

    Blinded for a moment by a bright flash, you almost crash into a huge rock in full flight. An endless railroad track stretches right at the edge of the cliff. There is no crossing, no bridge. And then you realize what has blinded you. A train. It rushes non-stop and inexorable like time. And here, right next to you, people are lining up, slowly and obediently walking. Silent figures in white clothes cross the path of the steel beast. And who knows who will be luckier: those doomed ones who fall under the wheels, or those who still manage to pass in front of the train only to fall like a stone off the cliff. But among them there are those who, probably waking up at the last moment, remember freedom and soar upward.

    And suddenly, as if by a magnet, you are drawn into the depths of this dark space. A vortex of magnetism with gigantic force draws you in. But what awaits you down there? Yellow, red, white and gold... "Where am I?"

    The approaching inevitability literally pushed her out of her sleep. The light from the street lamps, breaking through the balcony frames, was reflected on the ceiling and walls of the spacious bedroom in unimaginable figures. Everything was coming together, gradually falling into place. She lay for a couple more minutes in some kind of mute stupor, slowly got out of bed and went to the window. It was stuffy. The darkness of the night was seething with some kind of hidden passion: "At least a sip of freshness!"

    Week after week, month after month. How many sleepless nights, frozen like wax spilled on cold water, are behind her!

    The wind, rushing through the open window, pierced her like an ethereal haze. But this is not coolness. This is loneliness. The clock measuredly counts the minutes invisible in the darkness. The room is like an empty stage, filled with luxurious theatrical scenery. But the play has not yet been performed. The author's hand has not even yet raised above the clean sheet of paper to let it into this world.

    She lights the remaining candles in the candelabra and slowly sinks into the past. If only the past were as silent and motionless as the photographs in the albums! If only it did not make the heart beat faster, obeying an inexplicable but persistent call. The call of an unrealized dream, the call of Home.

    “Childhood. Winter. The lacy fan of the blizzard lashes my cheeks, trying to tell me about life. I am being carried in a sleigh. It is already evening. I am lying on my back, carefully wrapped in a blanket. An argument. I hear voices. I do not want to understand, but every word passes through me, like a needle threading thin silk and pulling a rough thread behind it. These words tighten me. I will not remember! I hear the crunch of snow under their feet. Let it become my lullaby. I see snow caps hanging from tired branches floating past the trees; sleepy splashes of light reflected in snowdrifts. I see the sky. I am in its palm. The steps fall silent. What a strange silence! I want warmth.”

    Flocks of crows had already gathered on the roofs of neighboring houses to greet the dawn. Their clamor and rustling of wings brought her back to the moment.

    For as long as she could remember, she lived in anticipation. Anticipation of the night, anticipation of a dream, anticipation of understanding and anticipation of meeting him. With the one who gave her all of this. No matter what happened, no matter how far the road took him, he always returned here, to her. He brought with him the first rays of dawn, the enchanting aroma of coffee in the morning, the sound of the wind beckoning to the road, the salty depths of the sea, the crackling of logs in the fireplace and the enchanting sounds of old ballads about love and freedom. They dissolved in each other, saturated with the taste of life. She freed him from fear and doubt, in return filling his soul with faith and tenderness. She loved to listen to his measured breathing, resting her head on his chest. All day long he gave her his dreams, inspired her with fresh ideas and made her live. And when the road called him again, she learned to live without him again, leaving herself only the hope of a new meeting.

    Night was falling slowly. The leaves on the trees shook off the last drops of rain, reflecting the glow of the full moon and whispering among themselves about what had escaped their fleeting glance the day before.

    A new flight is like a new birth. It so easily and painlessly frees the soul from everything alien and false. You rush through the forest thicket. You fly, unable to restrain the impulse of some sacred madness. Neither dry tree branches nor black birds can become an obstacle to the rebellious soul. As if some universal explosion feeds every particle of you with fiery energy. You fly to a silent call, not knowing what awaits you there and not thinking why. You envy lightning and dream of becoming it, you seek space and find a way out.
A marvelous old estate in a clearing, hidden from prying eyes by a cocoon of winds. But a comprehensive look pierced the stone walls and captured a strange performance: actors in ridiculous medieval costumes, attempting to stage an ancient ritual amid farcical props—obscuring the true, austere charm of the palace hall's interior.

    But it is not their call that you have heard. They play, not noticing each other, delightedly enjoying their repetitive game. They do not see the enchanting beauty of antiquity and try to match the forms of cardboard decorations. But their faces themselves have become like grotesque masks. This is not life...

    The call has become stronger. With incredible supernatural power, you break the wall and see what was hidden there in the darkness. Here they are, the eternal sisters, who by the will of oblivion once became rag dolls, stone statues and disembodied phantoms. Yes, oblivion has cast them into immobility, but it has not deprived them of strength. It is their silent call that you have heard from the depths of centuries.

    And now they are transformed — filled with life, imbued with meaning, and open to the flow of time. The moment has come! It's time to leave this dusty, airless room, this castle profaned by farcical acts. Out there, beyond the forest, on the hill — they are already waiting for you... And suddenly, everything began to ring and collapsed into a solar whirlwind...

    She opened her eyes. Flashes of bright light blinded and confused her. After a few moments, she came to her senses and realized that these were fireworks. There was a celebration outside the window. People were touching the sky with these bright splashes. A dance of unity with the stars under the fading diamond rain. For a moment, everything became quiet. But ghostly glares continued to sparkle in her eyes, gradually lining out into the Milky Way, leading to a mystery.

    The sun, making its way through the scraps of clouds, hurried to dry the tears of the morning dew. A light wind, lost in the labyrinths of the city, frolicked and tore the hats off passers-by.

    She stood on the balcony and breathed in the virgin freshness of the dawn...
But now, like annoying flies, fragments of phrases, taken out of the context of the bustle, began to fly in.

    People, carelessly plunging into the abyss of life, like stones thrown into the water, carry around waves of emotions. And the larger you look at it, the more grandiose the seething ocean of life becomes, its boiling raising from the bottom everything dead and obsolete. And then in this muddy water they have to move almost blindly, not remembering themselves, with their hearts tightly closed.

    The midday heat had scorched the rooftops until they glowed, driving even the most ardent sun-lovers into the shadows. She stepped out to the pond and settled beneath the shade of an old willow. A dry wind brushed the surface of the water, scattering shards of sunlight that struck the ground with childlike stubbornness, as if trying to pierce it through. Yet even here, beneath the willow’s leafy canopy, there was no real sense of relief.

    Not far away, children were building a sand castle, but the slender towers kept crumbling. Despite this, playful souls joyfully erected new forms of palaces.

    Thoughts swarmed like midges around the water. Water! She longed to wrap herself in a cool, damp cloud and watch the evening arrive — to see diamond raindrops blur the thick colors of streetlight on the windowpane.

    Returning home, she involuntarily lingered her gaze on one strange couple. In the darkness, only their silhouettes were visible and a velvety male voice was heard, for some reason incredibly familiar. The woman remained in silence. The bright light of the headlights of a passing car momentarily opened the dark veil of the night, and she saw... him. That tender, adoring look on such a familiar face. But there was something else in that look. Peace and determination. Unbreakable peace, with which she always tried to fill his soul and mind, dissolving herself. She expected piercing pain, but felt only cold. A sudden chill in such a hot night. Maybe this is just a ghost of her fear? Maybe - a game of loneliness?

    Warm tea and the rising music of the wind outside helped ease the tension. For a moment, she disappeared — only to find herself back again, in her room. And then, that aching silence was suddenly torn apart by the click of a lock turning open.

    He stood on the threshold with his companion. “Maybe now he’ll explain what’s going on… who this woman is?” But he didn’t even turn his head in her direction — still gazing at the strange woman with the same calm reverence.

    Without offering her a single word, not even a glance, they walked into the room and took their seats at the table. The woman behaved as if she were the mistress of her home. “Something familiar in her silhouette. Her hair — I think I remember its touch. That strangely familiar scent of perfume... Like a reflection in a mirror world… No, not quite.” They sat across from each other, eyes locked, immersed in a silent conversation of souls.

    Confused by what was happening, she stood motionless before the door for a while, staring at the keyhole — as if trying to escape through it into another reality. She simply wanted to ask this uninvited guest who she was, and why she had come.

    But the moment she stepped closer to the table and looked into the woman’s eyes, everything turned upside down — and within the swirling chaos, a labyrinth of order etched itself into being. From the black abyss of the stranger’s gaze, it was she herself who stared back.

    She awoke… Soft white clouds caressed the velvet of her skin. The approaching dawn painted her eyes with shades of azure. The world, still half-asleep, stretched and sighed. Leaves shimmered gently in rhythm with the pre-dawn breeze.

    And there was no horizon anymore.
She was the Sky.
She was Stillness.
She was Silence.