" The basis of the exterior "
It's accepted at the rationalistic literature first to set the coordinates of the time, then to measure the borders
of the creative space, and only after this all the personages- "actors-visions", who must carry on themselves all the
weight of worries of the author do appear one after another. It's very hard to be these "visions", as they have no real
weight to resist the forces, that make them suffer. But they are like Genii, once went out from their bottles and turned into
invincible heroes. They can destroy or to make crazy even the author himself. But we shouldn't blame for somebody's
madness these worthless, little, but at the same time powerful creatures. Blame somebody is the easiest work in
human life, but we'll try to get true more complicated aims. Let's try to understand each other.
We are not Gods of course, but if we want, we can love each other. Love - is a search. Some of us look for a friend,
others - for a twin soul, thirds - for the truth, but in fact, all the cases consider to be the search of love. As the bee looks for
a little drop of nectar in a big crown of the flower, so do we look in the environment for a meal for our mind- feelings.
Love feelings resemble aromatic and sweet honey, the taste that one doesn't want to loose, once have tried it.
Once, walking in the garden of my old and wise Granny, I stopped near the flower. It was a rose.
Following the stupid habit, I began to count the petals, which were a great number of.
Coming from one petal to another of these tender stages of aromas, I closed my eyes, but I couldn't stop the
movement of the mathimatics, the numbers submitted my will. From the petals I went to the leaves, spines,
roots and then - to aromas: the aroma of the first degree, of the second… the thousandth… By the way, that rose had
exactly 365 spines - sharp like Japanese ladies' daggers. All those daggers were hidden by the leaves, that were stretched
out like Eastern fans.
But every biologist would say, that leaves protect the stem from the Sun. But biology had never met with the intrigues
of the heart. Even pshycology didn't go further logics. I guess phsycologists are afraid of that abuse of emotions,
that threatens to a lover with the brand of madness.
And my rose was crazy too, but how can the flowers be "normal", as we, human beings, are? These tender substances
of feelings live separately from their friends. The only thing they can do is to write each other letters or simply love notes.
And some of them have to comunicate with others only in the way: you write, she keeps silence. My rose was crazy too,
and I, counting vibrations of her aroma, went into her crazy mind.
Yes, my friends, aroma is the idea of silence, speech of a madman. Amused by some superficial shows of aroma,
we inspire ourselves with the coquettish icon of flower. That's why we always think that the flowers are feminine.
We can't imagine a tender and defenceless violet as a man. And that's all because we didn't recognize the inside world
of flowers. And from here is our inability to fell pity for each other.
The inside world of the flower looks like a Hell, filled with the unspeakable suffers. And these suffers incarnate
into vibrations of the aromas with the hope to attract attention of any living sole, that has an ability to move and to find
another flower. If you could just imagine, my friends, what a colossal wish to meet a friend has a flower. It dreams
to be a human, to have two legs, arms and lips. And a man envies to a flower for it's tenderness and colourful skin.
What a paradox!
Often a man tears off the flowers, gathers them into one group, where they can have a talk. But they are flowers,
not the gelded boys from the conservatory of the Catholic Church. Tearing off the flower from it's roots we add some more
suffers to those, who are like the lovers, who were dazzled before the date. Everything that a man can do - is to feel pity for them,
more seldom to understand and to estimate all the sence and the advantages of our moving all-the-sides body.
The flower always looks for its lover blindly, but we'll look for otherwise, not to harm our mobile organs by the inactivity.
If we want to see the beauty of the flower for veal, we must feel pity for a flower indeed, for the moments when
somebody would step on its defenceless body with his dirty boots.
The laws of the exterior are the laws of love - no more no less. Real artists resemble to God: they wouldn't leave
anybody at the composition without a particular attention, weasel and joy. Composition exists because of everybody's
presence. The dominant of composition is such a small fry!
Composition is the presence!
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