Вайлет Р. Кецкарова (allyvrk)

Раздел: Проза на чужд език  Цикъл: Reflections EN

Tears started streaming their way down as I clicked every other picture. Oh, how I wish I was there. Or here. Or somewhere.. I wish I knew. My empty eyes keep staring at the blank screen. Or at the blank landscape. It’s not blank, I know. There are all these beautiful trees that are weeping. Weeping for our help. So we start working. The instructor starts explaining something: “Cut this that way; move that there; toss this branch into the river; save this for the camp fire later.” I see all the excited faces around me drinking the words; their eyes sparkle with passion, with faith, with love. They love the forest. They believe what we do means a lot. It does. It means a lot to the forest, to the trees, to mankind, to this planet… to them. It makes no difference to me. Not anymore, I feel… emptiness. I give all I know, and I feel emptier than ever. But I don’t want to take anything. Whatever I could get will make me feel even emptier. I know, because I’ve tried. I tried taking things from this life and it didn’t work. I tried giving things, but it didn’t work, either. It may have, for somebody else – bless’d be that soul if someone else could possibly benefit from anything I’ve done in my miserable life! But it didn’t work for me. I keep feeling empty. Carrying those branches around I kept seeing a blank picture in front of me. The voices were somewhat distant, alien. I couldn’t understand what they were talking about, what they were laughing at; I couldn’t understand their marry songs, or why they seemed so happy. We all sat around the camp fire. It’s been five awfully long hours that felt like eternity. Or like five moments of eternity. All the same. It was all like a dream, all blurry and vague. I can’t tell how they passed. Or how I ended up staring at the fire. Blank orange flames. Solid. Like the transparency of water, but orange. I was tempted to plunge into it. I got up, ready to jump in and someone passed right between me and the fire, handing me a bottle of beer with a merry smile, the orange flames playing across his eyes, but darkened in the reflection. “Thanks!” I muttered. He disappeared. I left the bottle and sat back. I can’t jump. They’ll save me. And they’ll send me to one of these places where they give you pills every morning and put wrist- and ankle-belts around your limbs. And I didn’t even want to die. I just wanted to dive into the fire and swim. Swim to another dimension, to some place where things made sense. Where I could just forget. Forget what? There’s nothing on my mind anyway. It’s empty… It’s all empty, like an abyss that goes on and on and on and on, and I keep falling into it deeper and deeper, and my cry for help fades and fades and I stop even crying because it’s useless. I took a sip. I used to love beer. Remember, at that game, I was watching with my dad ten years ago. It was the last game for our team at the Eurocup group finals. We lost to Spain by 6 to 1. That’s alright, we scored first. Goal! Remember the screams? Remember how Manchester won the Champion’s League to Bayern in the 94th minute? And the bottle of coke that same summer that brought Eddie two grand prix-s? Like an old filmstrip those images scrolled in front of my eyes. For a second I felt I had something to hold on to. Pure joy. The things that were able to make my day. Or to destroy it. “All the passion, that turns to ashes…” They were gone. And empty orange replaced them. I don’t remember anymore – what was the last time I felt this – when was the last time I could scream with joy, when was the last time that my heart stood firm on something? It all turned to ashes, like the dead wood we were burning in this camp fire. I flash-registered a distant song in my mind. I tuned up a little. It was no distant song – it was coming from the guitar right next to me. He was playing on of the old popular rock tunes we’ve all grown up with. From those he used to play every Thursday after the Green Balkans meeting, when we gathered up there, on the top of the hill. Only it wasn’t him anymore. Those were different voices. Different faces. Different darkness, greyish, solid. No life in this living forest. We did our best, we planted trees, and seeds, and cleaned the place. We put new stuff for birds to nest, I don’t even know what it’s called. It should be fine now, we healed this little piece of heaven. And I was still empty as a used-up bucket. Is heaven empty? I used to sing these songs with all my heart. I used to know the words, and mean them, love them, cry them, fight them, scream them. Now they are gone, like everything else, like everyone. And yet I know, for all my sanity and all my reason that I still trust, there must be somebody out there who still loves me. People, who care, kind of, at least. You know, all these that would want to send me to that place with the pills and the belted beds if I jumped into fire. For my own good, or for their wrong understanding of my own good, doesn’t matter, it’s the intention that counts, and that would be good. So why can’t I feel them? Where are they? Where’s this love? Are the ice-walls of my iron heart so thick that no ray of love could possibly beam its way in? Is this how a black hole feels? So hard to hit and hurt, but shrinking, getting smaller, darker, colder, emptier? Swallowing everything within reach, neither reflecting nor letting any beam of light pass through? This song is over; another followed. Now, this one I had known for ages! It always made me cry… That strange shiver, starting at my back and running through my whole body, that strange feeling… Can it do it now? Can I shiver? Can I feel?... “Now the sky shines in a different kind of blue…”