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2009 - May (Incomplete)


The world is brave and new, but what is it that this brave new world turning into? It spins around so slowly, so unlike its brave nature, and the people that roam atop its green fields and sail along its endless blue rivers are cowards. They are all cowards. They hide from the future, they mourn over the past, and try to tame their present. Their strife towards control is my only nemesis. It is my nemesis because, you see, I strive towards control as well. The difference is, that I want my control just a little little bit more.


There is another difference as well, that sets me on a whole different level than all of these vicious competitors of mine. Has your curiosity awoken yet? Which difference might possibly exist that lets me claim the future, tame the present and no longer need to mourn over the lost, the forgotten days, as so many people like me do? There isn’t much to it, it’s simple really, I’m a psycopath. I have lived my life with emotion. I have been so set on living my life without any human weakness that I got rid of my emotion long ago.


My name is Aliston Wine. It’s a strange name, I know. My parents moved to the United States of America in the nineteenfities, when it was yet a land of freedom and the opportunities this land represented were known far, faracross the globe. Already then did the world spin slowly, and the people of this slow world were cowards. My parents worked day and night to keep food on our table, and we lived in a small apartment. We slept in the kitchen and we cooked in the living room. There was nothing to live for, no room for life.


We used to gather in the living room every afternoon, together. I would sit on the floor, with my back towards the warm and soft mattress I slept on at night. My parents would sit on their sofa, and we would all sing great songs from our motherland Russia. They sometimes dressed up in the old clothes they had had when we first arrived in America, and we would all sing together, happily. My father had been a general in the army, but after the revolution everyone that did not lose their life lost their job, and they fled here.


They were cowards, even they, my parents, were cowards. I loved my parents very much back then, they were the only ones I ever loved and they will be the only ones I ever will love. I have abandoned all my emotions and will no longer be one of the many frail human beings that constantly surround me. Life is delicate, it can disappear at any time. One moment you can smile, you can sing, you can dance, you can be happy. And the next moment, you can cry, you can scream, you can shiver, you can go insane.


My father wore his uniform when we danced, when we sung, when we had a good time. He used to do a traditional Russian salute sometimes, and I remember laughing because it looked so funny. He wasn’t a very handsome man, not very tall, not very muscular. He was infact very short, chubby, and with a large mustache that tickled everytime he hugged me. It was his determination that took him so far, he climbed up onto the peak of determination in Russia, and even after he had fallen down he started climbing upon his determination again. But he fell.


When he fell he fell hard. When his determination fell in Russia he was prepared, he worked for the government and he was aware of the pressure that it was handling at this time. He knew that the country would collapse soon, and in his dreams he built a new world for us. He told me of how he had pictured our new home, how he had wanted his dream to turn out. A large house, green fields, a steep rise from a series of cliffs diving down into the foam of the ocean. When he fell, these dreams died.


He did not fall from a ladder, or from a balcony, or from a rooftop on one of the many skyscrapers that crept higher and higher in this new land. He fell from himself, he lost hope, he deteriorated. He remembered the country he had lived in, but he did not want any memories from this new country he himself had dreamed of. When things did not turn out as he planned, when the peak of determination was harder to reach than he had wished, he let go of his grasp and fell down into the dark depths of failure.


My mother wasn’t happy when he wasn’t happy. She used to cry sometimes, at night, when nobody heard her. But I did hear her, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to her moans of agony from the room beside ours. I had a little brother as well, unlike the rest of us he was born here, in the land of new hope. He doesn’t have the same dark memories as the rest of us have from our homeland, and we’ve all tried to shelter him from it. Butt times his happiness brings the rest of us envy.


At times he brings us jealousy. At times he brings us hatred. Yet at times he brings us happiness. Like the day he got his first job, working as a tailors disciple in a modest little shop down 47th street. It wasn’t much, but it was more than my father achieved during his new lifetime. He used to tell us that ”if cats have seven lives, then why can’t we have two?”. I remember those words, and used to believe in them, but I don’t any longer. Their meaning has shriveled up and dried up like a dust prune long ago.


Let me tell you a story. A story my grandparents told my parents, and one they later told me. It is one that has been passed down for generations, decades, centuries, and shifted during the different times. In the old days the main character was a tsar, then he became a president, now he’s a normal citizen. The story shaped him, in time created the figure he really turned out to be. He wasn’t as mighty as those who created him wanted him to be, he was ordinary, and the more time passed by the more normal he did become.


This is not the story about him, this is the story about his story, and how it deteriorated with time. Like the fragrant blossoms on a tree early in spring, or the fresh white layer of paint glacing a newly build house, or maybe the cold and colorfully designed icecream that soon melts away and forgets all about his former bliss. This is the way of all things in the world. All people, all objects, and all stories. Some people become legends, but their legends grow thin as time passes, they lose the power they had when the generation lived.


A story is built for a generation, and it is used by this generation, and passed on to new generations by the ones who appreciated it so. But as time passes, and as the bonds between generations become weaker, so do the stories. Only in small villages, united societies still captured in the old world, do stories still serve their purpose even after their time runs out. In small villages like this, you see, time stands still. Or rather, there is no time. The world passes by, yet the village remains, people mend their houses, and people harvest their grain.


Matters stay as they always have done in small towns like this. The people don’t lose their point of focus, and nor do their stories, and it was from a small town like this one that my father was born. He was like the rest of the village people, living in a world without time, and he enjoyed every second that passed by without him knowing it. He came home for dinner when the sun set, and he went up when it rose into the sky, and it was first on his tenth birthday that he became aware of the time.


He became aware that it was at seven he came home, and at seven he woke up in the morning. And every time he woke up or came home he would stare at his watch in wonder, and think how fantastic it was that this tiny device could keep up with his daily routines. He did not follow the watch, it followed him, and time always ran in tune with his own pace, always. He worked hard when he was little, and he worked harder when growing up, and when he had finally grown up he decided to move out.


My mother didn’t grow up in a small village as he did, she grew up in the city, a big dull grey field crowded with large blocks of cement and pebble. The time was not constant here. It changed. Sometimes it went faster, and sometimes it slowed down. At nights it slowed down, but every morning it woke up and with it the population of this city. Everyone had a hard time keeping up with the time here, it did not wait, and it would not let you reuse it when you hadn't had enough courage to keep the pace.


My mother worked hard too. She rose from bed early in the mornings, when the sun had not yet risen into the horizon, and the time was still sleepy. She stayed ahead of it during the morning, during midday, during afternoons, and in the evening she slowed down. She let the time run alongside her until they both slowed down, stopped, and calmly went to sleep as space came to supply the night with peace and lesser motion. She lived with her parents at first, and later, when they kicked her out, alone. She had lived in the city always.


It was at a dancehall in Kreiv they met, my mother and father. Why they were there I never bothered to ask, but it’s something I ponder over now. Was it by occupation they traveled there? Did friends try to get them together? Was it all just coincidence? Was it a lucky coincidence? In Russia they were always so happy, but when they came to the new, the land of America, they didn’t get along at all. The slightest everyday dilemma could sprout out into a fullblown fight. But in Kreiv, they danced for three days straight, and slept two.


I wonder if it’s just a story, or if they really did dance for three days . . . and sleep for two. It’s a long time to dance, and sleep, but I suppose that with dedication anything can be achieved. They moved together shortly after, to Kreiv. They quickly bought a small apartment there and planned to live happily after in the city. It was noisy, and it was warm in the summer, and cold as ice when winter came, but that didn’t bother them at all. They lived in the apartment as if it was a villa, even though it was small.

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