We were standing on the sixth floor and Sz. said that he did feel sorry for all the cats and dogs, but the fireworks were just so pretty. And we all wished each other that things would get better – as if it had ever been up to us.
As if it had ever been up to anybody else but us.
The cat, paralyzed with fear, was sitting quietly on the kitchen chair, I was drinking up my third bottle, and around me there were revolving a few satellites – a bunch of old friends who are my little family in this city.
Sarcasm can save you from collective hysteria, excess of emotions and hasty enthusiasm, but using it against people who always remember about you or against family who is always there ready to help when you turn around – it’s like hurting yourself really.
I don’t dream of revolutions, miracles or great victories. I have developed a liking not for a life that glitters, explodes and rouses me as a life like that happens only rarely – instead, I have a liking for a life that goes slowly but also surprises you with places and states of mind you find yourself in, and the quality of those places and states is so weird that you can’t even tell it good or bad, yet you feel immense pleasure of experiencing them, perceiving them and remembering them in a funny selective way. It’s good to realize that life is not a streak of pleasures and to find pleasure in being alive instead.
2.30 am, a short message from a gorgeously smelling girl whom I met on Friday; well, it deifnitely helped me sense that pleasure.
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