Seeing off the old day past,
Barely touching the pillows with soft head,
Indulging in dreams, they gladly listen,
With the intermission, you leave the stage of life,
And in the morning under the bird's vociferous sound
Backstage raises the memory again with his hands,
Opening the scenery, experience and story on stage:
Mistakes, happiness, take offs, skills, fall.
Memory has a special role in the theater:
Enter script, keeping the story line,
In a slightly opened eye from the reflection of dawn,
Restarting the entire repertoire of the flight game,
To move forward like a jet,
And don't run, like a mouse, in the wheel in place.
So can remember the lives of past songs
As useful as remembering a day or a year?
The mind is constantly busy with something interesting,
And if you calm his chatter at your leisure,
Like a noisy crowd, that storms the entrance,
Then the memory will turn out to be not so short hands
How minds sometimes think, that echo loudly,
That we play the scene of life only once,
They seem to play the ancient order
A stretch of time from our birth
And until the last hour strikes.
And if they don't like the script,
Then lamentations rush to the addressee of fate.
Line segment, he is a cut, that there is no big picture,
The order is covered with life all natural.
And if you go from behind the scenes to the theatrical limits,
That which will show the hands of the creation of endless memory?
That a collision with people cannot be accidental,
That all events are true, what happens to us,
And life – theater, that we previously put together ourselves.
We are connected with people by invisible strong knots.,
Shuffling cards from life to life, changing roles,
Touching each other with love, then with prickly thorns.
Knots we knit tightly emotional outburst,
That in past incarnations a pitchfork rope between us.
And that's why, stepped on stage, barely colliding sleeves,
Or thrown aside, or the flames will flow through the veins.
In the silence from the noisy surf of the waves, you enter this life with a wingspan and observe yourself through two open lenses, who unfold the world before you, like a hologram. You are still small and the whole world is open to you, transparent, you silently sink into it. As long as the lenses are not covered with glass, everything, what will be observed, a wind of surprise is born in you and a thirst to feel it. And now the wave brings the thought, word. Whisper in your ear: "Materialize it". And they fly like film frames in front of the lens, giving birth to a movie before you. grow up, involved, role playing, and at the same time you look from the side. And so, when the verbal wave does not converge with your wave, what do you have inside, less, actually, are you really, then the world is a distortion and misleading, shares, relatively speaking, you to pieces: you and the world. Therefore, in the manifested image of life, you do not find happiness., even though you will be rich and covered with gold from head to toe. But, when your wave, that was born in silence from the noisy surf of the waves, coincide as closely as possible into one with the wave of words, intentions, deeds, then in transparency you will be without shackles and remember who you are. And again you will notice your wings. And life will reward you in return, and your word will become weighty for all living things..
Why do birds fly?” – suddenly from nowhere came a voice through a haze of fog. I involuntarily screamed, and, stumbling, landed on wet grass. Looked around, but didn't see anyone. For some reason today, despite cloudy weather, I decided to do a morning jog along the usual route in the local grove. There wasn't a soul around, drizzling rain, seemed, will never end, the path almost completely disappeared into the thickening fog. "I'm asking you, why do birds fly?' said the same voice., louder and more insistent. I screamed again, heart pounding like a hummingbird. In front of me stood a small blond creature, looking at me with an impatient look. "What birds, what are you doing here alone?"I blurted out in an almost trembling voice.. Adding exhaling drawling air: "How did you scare me so much". It was a girl of four or five years old., dressed in a dress, in her hand she held a soft toy monkey. "Where are your parents? you got lost? Let me take you home?"I asked. The girl shook her head in different directions and answered in a serious tone.: "It's you who got lost! Let's go to, I'll show you how to go". And with her little hand she took my hand. I barely held on, not to laugh and succumbed to the game. "Cold, let's go to, what is your name?" – I asked, trying to find out something. She was silent, ignored my subsequent questions and we walked for a while in silence. The rain is almost over, the cool air smelled of cypress. "And here we are", – said the girl and pointed to the stairs, that led somewhere up. The fog made it impossible to see, where did she go, all visibility was limited to ten steps. Strange, I didn't remember, so that there are at least some buildings in this park. "Do you live here?'- without knowing, what am I asking, I said. "Let's go to!"- drawlingly answering, she pulled me along. And we started to climb. The stairs were steep, with high steps and it was difficult for the girl to step even on one. I picked up her monkey and helped her up, she, in turn, squeezed my hand and pulled me up. And with every step I understood, something is wrong here, looking closely at the girl, then to the monkey, what I held in my hands. And then, as if cold water was doused in my face, I staggered, almost fell back. I have remembered, that the monkey was called Kolya and I clearly remember the dream, when at the age of four and a half I dreamed of this grove, with her coniferous forest, and a tall girl with a wet head from a drizzle, how she and I got lost in the grove, took her by the hand and we silently walked the two of these stairs, what's in front of my nose right now. A flash flickered and everything began to dissolve before my eyes, I began to slowly feel the pillow, bed and sheet. And finally waking up from sleep, where did you meet yourself, I think, that obviously I still hold that little hand in my palms.