True Sadness. Denis Nushtaev

Studying his fixations, a man loses his will, so what we call “vice” starts to live its own life, assembling a wonder-woman as a Florentine mosaic – from different parts of woman’s ontology. But gradually, a particular woman begins to form its own material planet in a man’s mind, which leads to a light gradient between the perceptions of different women, starting to manifest its difference between various soul angels. And here emerge nagging disadvantages, which deprive particular women of their female spirit, and they immediately fall into the world where our material vice lives, so the objectification of female passes through the research of the women who a man doesn’t like – a man protects his angel’s image for a long time from these whores of the material world, that’s why he wastes his quite real time on unworthy women (with his actions or thoughts), but finds this image only in details unable to assemble the wholesome fantasy. Gradually, a man ceases to have energy for the continuous and creative task, which paves the way for the dependence on particular relics, who jealously protect a female spirit in the very woman’s body and behaviour – these relics exist due to the difference from a man’s anthropology, so, a man has literally “kind” feelings to the tags of femininity, but eventually, every woman is objectified because of the presence of the human in her – simple wishes, jealousy and other vicious thoughts, as our human is initially connected not to high ideals but to vices, so any human community unites on the basis of common vices but not aims. This process of objectification happens continuously and with each perceived woman, so “an angel” stops being an aim and becomes a method of a woman’s perception – a benchmark for those women whom he likes, and gradually such criteria as “she was charming” step to the background if they don’t satisfy a man’s fetish, because a vice is a vessel for fantasy, which ceases immediately as soon as a man starts to perceive a woman-person (a woman’s main enemy to a man’s mind). A man can quite satisfy himself with such a woman but only temporarily – as well as with flashes of comprehension, which give us motivation to change only for a short period. Desire is not an aim but a milestone that triggers our thoughts and they, languishing in our mind, invent complicated ways to satisfaction, and when we try to reject our vicious desires, we actually return to our initial desire, which demands not satisfaction but maintenance. Isn’t it the same with divine?

      Afraid to lose the draft of thought and deciding to interrupt their argument a little, I asked for paper and a pen, and Ursula gave me her sketchbook which Alan had presented to her trying to make her show her creative spirit, and unexpectedly for me, Alan snatched it from her hands – I had never noticed such sharp movements in him, but I definitely understood that it was the time for me to leave. Only a few days later I learned from Alan that the beginning of this project became the end of their relationship but it didn’t influence his wild intention.

      After what happened to Alan, Ursula told me for the first time that he had been beating her, and once again I became assured that violence is not flapping arms. To me, thoughts about mind and violence always went side by side, and I think that the thoughts of violence have more metaphysical nature than people tend to think. These ponderings were caused by my observations that fighting people in a bar do not spread so much violence as a person who quietly weaves inner jealousy towards everybody but shows nothing with the actions. On the contrary, such a person is often courteous as was Alan.

      – I think violence can never be justified. Never – even protecting close people. If you want to protect them, you should run away from any signs of violence but not to show protection when you are cornered… You know, he sometimes beat me.

      – Why haven’t you ever told me about it?

      – Because he was a good man. One day we were in a restaurant and he told me: “If I ever cheat on you, she wouldn’t be this kind of a chick. Nothing can be more stupid than a farm chick. I’d better sleep with a Boucheme’s bust, it seems to have more life”. He meant the students celebrating their graduation and behaving provocatively.

      Ursula was crying while she was speaking, and I thought how women’s tears are different from men’s – a woman always cries about an unrealized reality and a man cries about a shattered dream. Walking along the street with her, I looked at the habitual environment, but Ursula’s tears coloured my soul even more than the rain. But no matter how habitual the word “soul” is, which we use in totally different contexts, we are quite far from understanding some rich vastness of our own depths, having a mixed nature of two substances: cosmic and our own – this mixture hints at the content of our thoughts, aspirations, feelings, which, on the one hand, are ultimately close to us, on the other hand, do not belong to us at all. And probably this formula is the best definition of ourselves with our intrinsic content, which bears the spirit of the wholesome space but not its dissolving parts, to which we got used to due to our imperfection – and for a fleeting moment it became clear to me that all the living was born beyond the space and then was mixed and put here. Some short time later, this moment of comprehension left only a dry formula: “was born beyond the space…” – generally meaningless because I can peer into this combination of words infinitely but cannot develop that short moment of comprehension – it should be looked for again.

      A much more fertile effect was made by the flash of comprehension as it lit my thoughts about violence – this sweet phenomenon, which saturates thoughts and dissolves the pillars of our morality with its juice of madness. We become confused in our reasoning but it is pleasant to think about violence on a person who angers and irritates our outlook, trickling on the sides of the mind. A real danger makes you defend, search for ultimate ways to safety not allowing to invent violence but a light air of cruelty appears only in calm and unagitated thoughts which got used to loneliness – ripening of these violence sprouts is only possible on the ground of calm dissolution when they become the only joy of the soul and the coziness of detachment from the outer world intrinsic to violence, but a light dissonance with this world can make violence break away. It is worth thinking what is this musical instrument whose play attracts Muramasa’s demonic blade, famous for the fact that if it is not used to kill all the living, it will kill the owner of the blade – this is the choice of any mature knight of violence: either to destroy all the world or to destroy oneself, so the extremes of a soul are the main source of mind for such a knight, but this sword is not attracted by fierce sounds of real force, as violence is not possible against force – not in this world. No, only weak groans of a victim attract knights of violence, and as soon as, by the will of fate, he sees a weak point in the defense of a living being, he attacks instantly: as soon as he sees a weak point in a soul, he will see a victim in a victim.

      All these thoughts combined not because of my topical attraction to violence, but of true sadness, which I felt in Ursula’s soul. Suddenly, she remembered her childhood:

      – I remember my dad being drunk – sad spectacle. He was a weak man like maybe any alcoholic. You know, I think women don’t understand women just like men don’t understand them. I don’t understand how my mother could love him for so many years. He beat her – not much – but I thought I would never get in such a situation. But Alan wasn’t an alcoholic. By the way, father called me when he learned about this story. First time in eight years. I was so reluctant to talk to him that said that I forgive him for everything. In my childhood I also thought a lot about the border. And I promise – one day I will get beyond it. Although I refused…

      (While Ursula was speaking, I became distracted again – my attention was drawn to a ray of the Sun, which thrusted through a sakura branch and cast an impressive shadow on Ursula’s face, lightening her smooth temple, where a little blood vessel appeared, sanctifying her image in a new way. Now she seemed a real warrior similar to those who built our island brick by brick— I think they were real heroes. This little bump on her temple became the personification of this heroism. I imagined her in a thick tropical forest – I read about such places in a Dezder’s book. Around her were the plants of all kinds, flowers of attractive forms and huge insects.