I am a writer. Which has happened not because I was promoted, appointed or somehow trained and certified. What the fuc... I mean... nothing of the kind!

I got pressed into this vessel of bitterness even before Serafima Sergeievna inserted the lacquered handle of a nib pen (don’t forget to dip the nib into the ink well for writing!) into the cramp seized fingers of a first-grader gull – mine...

And then go and carry out what was planned for you by Dick-only-knows whom in Dick-only-knows where, when I still had not been anywhere about this here world.

Bastard knew beforehand what a painstakingly diligent and obedient peon I will become...

Writing is an ungetriddable birthmark, inseparable, were you even as blind as N. Ostrovsky.

True, he wrote badly and garbage, but still better than the deaf-blind-mute challenged from their birth or brought to the same standard by the compulsory secondary education.

I am a writer who writes the picture of the world as I see it. The image is final, stable and incorrigible because of my lack of predilection for proofreading and—consequently— time.

So weighty reasons make my views pretty conservative and stubborn, there's no way to convince me of anything not conceived by me firsthand. On the other hand, I am an easily malleable stuff for any fool to shape me into giving up my own sermons and worldviews.

Yet, if giving it a sober thought, do I need it? Or anybody? Who needs those creative impulses poured out all over my PC keyboard? Who's another victim, for absolutely nothing, the keyboard is.

Some monstrously sadistic battering of the innocent accessory plus harrowing of my beloved self.

For suchlike excesses, one should be born by blood-thirsty ghoul Saltychikha after her one-night stand with Malyuta Skuratov, the henchman of Ivan the Terrible (where, by the bye, has I misplaced my birth certificate?).

(What SOB has right now murmured “so was it written in your birth tablet” back there, eh? Let me interview that unsolicited genealogy writer for 17 minutes maximum and the bitch will on his own accord sign the confession that tablet-scratching was ordered by, at least, three intelligence services of different imperialist nations!)

Of course, I'm interested in any response to my scrabbles. But quite a few bottles have sailed off my hands tagging along after the torrents in the digitized Gulf Stream, and only silence echoes back—not a single splash by the tail of a playful goldfish, no harsh scream of a pessimist albatross: “Hey, Titanic! You head smack bang against a fucking iceberg!" (as if it would stop us, both the iceberg and me or let us bypass each other, or cancel what was predetermined before the creation of the world!)

However, it is not hard to figure out the reason for sea critters’ shyness – the Internet is only 25 and folks are not used yet to think openly. What’s worse, being trained to read between the lines, they can’t see what is said directly, right before their eyes.

At 25, I was a way more timid guy, albeit shaggier.

Let’s speak easy, the hunger for feedback once more highlights my irrepressible egoism and wish for a distraction, anything helping forget all them those Big Brothers—glossy glove puppets, each of them, stretched over three fingers – the military-industrial complex of their respective belonging. Seated about the ghostly sheen in their table of negotiations, they portion away the uneven heights of Karabakh: “These uranium deposits in Kialbajar be for you, and this piece of pleasant climate for military bases – my share.”

And soon after the talks (as also resulting from them) the Prime Minister of Armenia (non-Armenian), gives up the lives of 7.5 thousand boys to fulfill his obligations to Big Bros, and along the highway through the indescribable beauty of mountain nature, huge SPAYKA trailers are rushing crammed with the variety meat of humans, torn, spoiled, messed-up by the cluster bombs shrapnel, white phosphorus and fragments of old-fashioned Grad...

The world has changed beyond recognition since then. It has become more comfortable, more dynamic, kinder, cleaner.

It’s getting harder and harder for me to keep apace the rhythm of its everyday life, to those witchy-bitchy gadgets.

However, these all are my problems, because of my age, may be, too slow learn I keeping the refugee ID on me, to present it to polite Russian peacekeepers in a freshly chopped off colony…

I still can’t accept for everydayness that, off the city limits, the team job of repairmen from the Stepanakert Water Supply Services, unearthing a water-pipe on a slope, gets interrupted by an unknown person (non-Azerbaijani), who shouts “siktyr ermenlyar! (fuck off Armenians)” and shoots a handgun at them.

Because the peacekeepers somewhat vaguely communicated about the pending repair work at that spot.

Because exactly that hour in the Shushi City, another irreplaceable (and why not? as if the trick is only for very Big Brothers, eh?) president, spiffed in a swanky camouflage, winds himself up by his own screams before a row of microphones and video cameras, so that the whole of Azerbaijan perk up and get united: ‘Wow! What Rambo of a czar we have! The big shot knows how to hook up a great victory!"

"Ilham sulh!"

"Sieg heil!"

(Corporal Schicklgruber at this moment grinned maliciously: "Genau das hatte ich gesagt! Das dritte Reich ist unsterblich!. Ja! Ja, meine lieben Herren! Sieg heil!.")

Because another 20-year-old boy’s body gets frigid on the slope, shot to death by another Hero of Nation.

The blood oozes through a new hole in his worn-out T-shirt. The dark-red blood, which is not to turn grass in just an hour, it has a more important function – it is the means of payment for purchase and sale of land, ranks, medals...

Because another mother shot her hands aloft to hit them against her knees and scream: "Wai! balas! wai!"

Because another brother accepts a weapon put into his hands for the sacred revenge.

Because The Show Must Go On!

Because it's dead predictable, this fucking show.

Both in East, with all its subtleties, and in techno-bureau-pluto-pragmatic West, and in other parts of this here world. Globally.

But I don't need to go into all that, I'm too tired of this invariably base monotonous shit.

All I need is a chance to cultivate a vegetable garden, water the cabbage patch and stuff, awaiting for the clattering hoofs of the praetorian Contubernium on horseback galloping to take my life.

And they but will come, my dear feathered lovebirds, for there is no other option, because what was there that same thing will come back, and rerun, and then again, and repeat later... or had I already said that?. well, anyway...

All I want is to anew declare my love and, following the example of great Julius (of Czech nationality) to alert over and over again:

People! Do not turn spare parts of war! You are capable of more!

Do not let them drive you into the global perimeters of compulsory vaccination! You are not dumb cattle, you deserve a better lot than that!

Or do I want too much? Eh?. People?.

Anybody home?!

Oops! Here we are again! Over and over! Completely forgotten. Would I ever keep in mind recharging this here phone?.

O! Fuck!

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05/23/2022 22:25 – 07/14/2022 18:32

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