Freud would listen to it. I’m sure.

That was a high tension on the table of “Penka” while mom and me were waiting for an order. Strangely fast we started to feel embarassed by each other with no proper idea for a talk. It’s like we’re trapped by each other company. I noticed her mispronunciations (more often than I voice it) and she got irritated that’s why I had stopped speak out (and because my opinion of the clothes doesn’t change her choice) and she knows I cannot speak expecting condemnation. It’s hard for me to pretend being interested in the domestic/practical/routine issues and it’s hard for her to talk about something else. Even her talks about the last crappy audiobooks or lame discussion about the last HBO teaser make me feel totally misearble. I try to look preoccupied though it’s obvious that I’m not. I cannot stop editing her speech while listening and get through it to the grip. I feel impending panic again like there is unbearable truth within. The truth is that my mom is not like I’d like (and imagined as a child) her to be (she’s not that intellegent) but anyway I crave for her approval and suffer from her denial and disergard. Like any other child. Is there anyway to free yourself from it? Is there even a chance to not to base on a primal desire for being accepted and praised? I don’t know. I hope so.



The day is calm as it is expected of the first January. There is expecadly a lot of food in the kitchen and no desire to eat it. We spend our New Year Eve watching Elementary, playing cards (we couldn’t find Monopoly) and drinking champagne. I wanted to sleep and hardly could get a plot of an episode. That was a year Putin was not wanted to speak, I couldn’t take his words seriously, all the same. Family, family, family. The institution the goverment has least power above.

Everything seemed unnecessary: dress, wishes, package for the gifts. (Mom gave me a certificate for cosmetic). At the evening I made a little speech about presenting money vs. real gifts. And of course she wasn’t agree with me at the beginning in her own manner. It’s like every time she is responding me she omits “You’re not right because” at the beginning.

Anyway, I’m in an simple good mood, we’re going to the cinema and I’ll make photos.


I finally had slept enough this night. In the morning, the body was quite demanding of physical activity and stretching. The yellow light was filling the rooms with light and shadows, the cat was curious about miraculous sparkles on the window glass. I made delicious French toasts and coffee. Everything seemed more or less fine. We drastically watched “Elementary” (I tamed this mom’s habit so at least I don’t suffer from ads). I washed up and dusted and washed some clothes. But I was terribly sad all the time.

At the top of that, mom was called about a cup I did – it was defective because I wrote the wrong proposition. Everything turned ugly. And my sharp sadness became even sharper. I had no choice but get up and go to work at the weekend.

I hadn’t wanted to leave a flat today not simply because of greasy hair, but because of the fear to see happy people hurrying up for holiday errands. The moments I hate most. My emotional sensibility and insecurity comes on stage and declares all the faults and cracks of my life, moreover, it paralyzes me, makes every move hard.

At the work I turned on the music and had printed some pictures while waited. The same grey room seemed more private and secure that way. I thought it was pretty good to sit there and be alone without lame attempt to seem OK. But then a man from another part of the building came to say he was leaving. In a glimpse of an eye security became insecurity again. Then accidentally a female client came to pick an order. And I was rude to her.

In fact, I became so sad after a video about depression, then I had suddenly realized that I suffered it a few times without proper treatment or approach. I just kept the pressure on myself and felt terrible for not being that productive, friendly, enthusiastic, focused etc. And instantly I wished a proper treatment or ability and knowledge to cope with it gently. I wished to outburst and to stop it. But I have that not-working post-soviet approach “Come on, you’re OK, just cheer up, people have worse problems and they tackle with it!” I wish to be more clever about it.

Hardly not crying I made a delicious lunch and then scrolled online shops for a perfect notebook, which is quite a time killing activity. Finally, I decided to start the one I have (though it’s bigger and has no elastic band). Afterwards, in an idle mood I started to read the new Esquire. And it was a perfect pleasure, thoughts, ideas, gentle and intelligent jokes I laughed at loudly. It always makes me feel as a part of an intellectual society and it makes me realize how empty I actually am. The metaphorical desert is not only outside but inside too. It spreads terribly.

The irony is that the whole terror of the first half of the day sank away with water I used to bath. Astounding power of Esquire!

dark pink

It’s both magical and fully grounded feeling of a moment when you go out of the tennis club to the winter yard. The trees, the playground, the cars – all is covered in puffy snow. It’s pink, yellow and black. What a strange thing to feel such intense loneliness and despair there.

I offered experienced it before on the road home after a workout. It’s a tiny thread tightened around lungs, a thin needle in heart, some massive and terrifying darkness above. It’s a moment to stop among the beauty of a late evening to hear music out of a car and don’t want to move. Come home again… (someone may not have a home to come)

I don’t want to know anything about new SW film, I want them all to shut up. It’s all a pre-christmas sadness and nothing else. I try to remember some good childhood memories of New Year Eve, but always tumble on a memory of a fake Santa in business shoes and parents going to work for celebration after his performance. (Why am I so negative about childhood? Mom says that it’s only my perspective)

It seems that I cannot get rid of the virus of sadness I caught being a kid. Essentially it’s the same.

times of darkness

It is a certain truth that in December inner demons wake up and start gnawing inside. It’s almost always dark and colourless. The aloofness looks as sharp as never and at the moment of literal loneliness screaming seems a natural move. Attempts to make it noisier, to keep music or videos on are like creating a shelter of your own.

But it’s never enough space for yourself like I need a table, a room, a flat, a house, land or an island to hide. What am I hiding from? From pretending of being someone I’m not, of speaking something I don’t care about, of stupid replies people can make. Or something else?

I don’t want to talk to people and discover once again a distance (on many levels including the distance I create) between. I cannot read articles on the Internet – the text is swimming before my eyes, it’s like a meaningless pattern on a curtain.

And finally, it’s Saturday. It’s grey and windy outside, and freezy inside. Mom is making a soup in the kitchen, I can hear vague noises of TV. I’m sitting at my desk, having done Anki reviews and have no courage to open the textbook to record new questions. I’m too coward for this.

I would work on this rather than drawing a house. Funny thing. I have arranged a meeting with Kate, but I suppose that my doubts will have vanished at that time. Soon Nastya will arrive at Cheboksary and I will have this rare opportunity to talk with her. How will it be? There are so many strains, so many untold words. We live completely different lives. It will be OK anyway, I’ll try my best.

It is silent in the room. I have remains the excitement in my head. It tries to think big. Pathetic films allow me to hover above the routine and ponder about life. Immediately things like a choice of bread or fish become pointless. Such rubbish doesn’t matter. I try to fumble an approach to life, the majors are somewhere in the air. I need to catch it. I need a big view on everything, I mean really big not just perspective in the frames of my own life.

Too long I was thinking in limits of my own life, of the practical questions. I want to be myself, to like what I like and not compromise with people. I don’t like outer “trying” to understand in order to be confirmed by society. I won’t “accept” things I do not accept. Different people, different opinions, tastes. I mean I won’t fake acceptance.

The main thing I want is to live my own life, not someone’s else. It certainly contains theatres, films, and other arts, it contains that emotional impact attempts to understand, estimate things through thinking. And I shouldn’t be ashamed by my obsession with fictional feelings, abstract and unpractical matters. I shouldn’t feel any shame for my positive feelings about minor things, however strange or antisocial it looks like. That’s me.


I found out that again I was involved into the net of the videos, articles and other short pleasure that made a full illusion of activity. It seems so stupid if I take a step back and look. All those videos do no more than deceive me, I feel like I consume an interesting content with good information. But actually, there is no point and interest and really profound information in there. However, time is wasted. I must to make a step out and do work for real movement, not a fake one. This isn’t a neat work, it can be disorganized or blended, but it will certainly be better if it’s real.

So it’s better to write something but today that make a perfect post but never.

The whole day I was within four walls observing the storm outside and lamented about broken internet waves. Lots of distraction among learning eighteen century’s history. There were too much silence and loneliness in one room. Even for me.  Sometimes I deal with this condition happily, but sometimes it pushes me down.

I went out for a stroll at the VDNHa. There were much destroyed around by the storm. That was one of my melancholic moods. Sounds were amazingly low, but I couldn’t hear my own thoughts though. My way led through the park to the Botanic Garden. Even there among the trees and birds, my own voice kept silent inside. Sometimes we just don’t like the way we are in spite of all the possibilities and dreams. Right here and right now it’s all far from desired. And among the marvelous trees which smelt like a rainforest, the inner deceive is almost impossible.

But there is the magic of the town at the end of the walk. The pond and trams at the spring evening. My eyes could see better.