Author: Mariam Bukia
Active and open to challenges because she thinks the world is a playground of unlimited possibilities, she works as a general manager, project manager, PR manager, young teacher, head of personnel department, book club leader, and speaker, in educational organizations. She writes poems, stories, sketches, because in this way she feeds the garden of her thoughts and ideas with sunlight.
The shadows of the city shimmer like her sickly pale face. The night flickers like clichés and old, unchanging words emerging from lips deprived of mental depths, like words uttered out of place and like every unspoken word.
Traffic lights also fade like the glow on the face with age. Life is contrast or noticing it. Without contrast, we perceive nothing, and it is difficult to decide whether we can call this innate and insurmountable nature or a weakness of the perceptive faculty. However, it doesn't matter what we call it or whether we call it at all—whether we call some of the women's clothes that attract people's attention too youthful and inappropriate or acceptable, it does not change the fact that she looks great. Or, whether we call a murder intentional, accidental, or self-defensive, it must be equally burdensome to the soul and tormented conscience of the perpetrator, or it must feel equally light after being committed. And these two examples, the dress and the murder, are as close to each other as any two tiles on the pavement (unless the workmen have done a very bad job), because both are so vain that it is difficult to find a line between them. What's hard, you shouldn't do, because life is a test, and finally, when the heavenly teacher begins to check your answers, in the form of a man weighing fruit on a scale, when he looks at the mangoes in the plastic bag with contemplation, that's when he will see your unanswered questions and not the effort you put into solving a difficult question. We must perform simple tasks because we cannot decide whether it is better to be called a successful electrician or the author of a failed plan for a missile that cuts the earth's shell. And then, you will turn back with the mango in the plastic bag, and no one knows where this "turning back" will take you, and the mangoes will smile at you from the corner of their lips, and maybe they will give you a hint, but they won't say anything.
Her face was pale and thin as a sheet.
Traces of spiritual suffering, like a raven, appeared on the page in black ink.
Would it be possible to draw a happy-smiling child and a child on it? It's the fault of the strict mother who hid the pencils, or maybe the poor mother who doesn't have a sharpener. Maybe she only dreamed of pencils. She doesn't know this, but she remembers that the pencils were wooden, she drew colorfully, and she herself was painted colorfully on the outside. The bunch of pencils were bound with simple rubber, and it made something good, something warm and soft... Maybe the pearl bead is broken, but I believe that the cloud bead is attached to the delicate neck because she is the sun herself.
Discussing possible scenarios only exacerbates the despair caused by their absence. It's incredibly comforting to think about the scenarios that might ever happen, and it's unnerving to think about the scenarios that could have happened but didn't. The present is in action. We still have not decided, the present is the space, the grassland, the dreams, and the thoughts, and the conscious is in the pit, or the opposite. However, perhaps this should not be determined, as the truth is the most linear thing, and people cannot follow straightforwardness. Even geometry teachers like multi-faceted figures, when they do not talk about the line, the continuous, one-dimensional shape of eternity on which the universe was laid. But you can't ask for this from math teachers after seeing how he drinks coffee with 70% dark chocolate, because you realize that he is not the ruler of space and flatness, but the usual one.
After all, it's okay if life sometimes seems to you as stupid, such as the figures on the blackboard, drawn by students during break, because here are the fluctuating and abstract words "it seems to you," and no one can convince you that your opinion is true. Now, at this point, you might feel like John the bicycle repairman, saying that this bike can't be helped, but after seeing the father and son's broken face, he suffers intellectually and spends words and sweat to deny what he said and justify the bike, as you did in front of your parents to justify the jam-stealing brother. In fact, John, the bicycle repairman, looks tired, helpless, monotonous and dull, and does not even understand the truth (or, maybe, he understands it best...).
If life is still stupid, then the geography teacher would stand in the center of the red-roofed classroom and say to the children, "Students, life is stupid," and they would accept this as an unshakable and usual truth. This will not happen; I just forgot that they don't teach about life in school. Indifference trumps all feelings in life, and in simple terms, everything is fine when you trample people like autumn leaves, and it's not at all sentimental because both leaves and people turn into compost in this scenario. Success is a corn field. Moons seen among the boughs of a tree are common occurrences only to hearts capable of childish, frank delight, and become silent with age, like a ball tired of playing. Children are good because they remember even tired and senile balls, or rather, the impressions received from them, which seem to be simple and general but are twisted as deep coils in the folds of memory. The bad thing is that the figures carved out of wood lie in the ground; they return to their original possession in an artificial, changed, ridiculous, and shameful form, just like people. Strange and seemingly incongruous is the transformation, which is multi-staged and multi-temporal, which appears to us as the grasping hands of figures carved out of wood and which fulfills its existence in the mud of human sin, and towards the end, the feeling that we are residents of the same farm is more and more awakened. Naturally, it is not so pleasant to believe this; however, personal beliefs do not change reality, nor do common ones; if at all there is a real and not an illusory boundary between the personal and the public.
Our lives are full of illusory closeness, and so is the change of age. All this is a facade, glued and attached. A person is born with his core, with his spiritual-intellectual sum, and this sum breaks down in many instances during life. And death, in such a case, is not the end, but the finding of the beginning, the realization of the goal, the achievement, the fulfillment, the solution, the finding after the search, and the appeasement. Despite the lack of hope of early detection, the search process should not be discouraged, not because "trying is half the battle," but because it is an obligation, a human obligation that is easily fulfilled. Looking negatively at a person, or life, or anything general and common, is like imagining that shadows are scary forms, that come from a window. Imagination is a powerful ruler of the human mind. Imagination is the controller of the weapon; the weapon is actions and words, and the object is the present. You can't avoid falling objects. The future on the second shelf is untouched objects.