Awakening worlds bring many stories, all sorts of sad and funny, disturbing, even scary, and soft as soufflés, mysterious and quite simple, in which there is no drop of mystery. Listening to them, I sometimes imagine them interweaving melodies, ringing, shaking in the wind. Sometimes these stories leave bells that can be hung on a tree in the garden. On a windy day, they all ring a bell, and it even seems that this sound is so powerful that somewhere in the world the sea will be born.
But this world was silent.
He was hanging by the cup of tea, as if inhaling the aroma, flew all over the kitchen and briefly hung by the floor lamp, hiding under a cozy lampshade. After he stopped at the window, there was something behind the glass, except for the nighttime lights and boring houses across the street.
- What is your story? - I asked, noticing that the rest of the worlds were fading and dissolving: they couldn't be denied a sense of tact.
Only that world remained silent. The silence came out of it so tangible that it could be spun into balls to weave carpets and plaids.
I came closer and looked into a transparent sphere. There was a silent snowy desert inside. Covering my eyes for a moment, I was there.
The longer I looked at the white silence that stretched before me, at the white emptiness and infinity, the more I wanted to break it with colors and sound.
Suddenly, I moved forward.
The world was alive, I couldn't argue with that, but I lacked the incarnation, the tiniest byline I could hear.
...I walked so long, I was tired and sat down in the snow. The cold had already got under my clothes, my eyes were sticking together, my inner voice was whispering that I could sleep and even change the fate of this little icy world with such a stupid death. After all, my body will become the only paint that will distort the whiteness and serve as a beginning.
But I didn't like the fact that life in this world will begin with death. With my stupid and my death, I didn't like it even more.
But the body that becomes paint...
That's the thought I'm really into. I looked through my pockets, after a long struggle I pulled a small knife out of my secret pocket.
The light blade, the handle, twisted with a scarlet cord, was almost a normal knife, small and light. Only here and now it will become the most important weapon in the world. Even in a small and unfinished world.
My fingers don't listen well, and I'm freezing more and more. I'm freezing so much that I can't step out of the door that separates this world from my warm cuisine.
The knife in my fingers is shaking, but I can't drop it - it's gonna punch in and I'll never find it in that snow again. Finally, I squeeze it hard enough to rinse in the other palm of my hand.
The cut swells with scarlet beads, they gradually fill the whole palm of my hand, get slightly darker... And then I spill the accumulated life in the palm of my hand on the snow, where it immediately blossoms with bright orange blossom.
I'm not cold anymore, or I've already lost the opportunity to feel cold, and I don't care - the world grows before my eyes, the rivers and streams run with silver ribbons, the trees move naked, the snow is laid with hats on the green spruce legs. Dark rocks are shown from under the snowdrifts, and then suddenly a golden path begins to weave between them.
When I smile, I realize that I won't hold on to the edge any longer. exhausted, I look down - there is a deep lake covered with blue and blue ice. The wind pushes me in the back, and I slip off the cliff, fall for an infinitely long time, gaining to the brink of a new world, and the voice and sounds of life. And I break about this ice.
For a moment, I am burnt with frosty water.
White is replaced by darkness.
***
I'm waking up at home, in bed. Everywhere there is silence, no curious worlds, no ticking clock in the living room, no noise kettle.
I'm still soaking wet, I'm still cold, my palm is unbearably saddled, but it's all trifles, the main thing is that the world has become full-fledged, has found its sound. But the knife...
The moment I slipped off the cliff, the knife was falling with me, but I'm sure it's now buried under the water and ice, at the bottom of the world it gave birth to.
Well, so be it.
I get up and come to my senses for a long time, go to the bathroom, frightening away the worlds, tripping over the bizarre shadows. I haven't returned to the end yet, a part of me is still wandering and won't come if I don't lure her out with a hot shower and tea and cinnamon flavor.
The water jets come to my senses, and I smile again, put the kettle on, look out the window thoughtfully. It's a new day there, the morning wakes up, it's snowing - and all this at once, one melody, almost in one note.
And when I turn my back on the frozen glass, I hear a subtle, different, clean and young sound.
Yes!
This is the same world.
He swims on the other side of the glass, throwing iridescent reflections into the kitchen, floating, not knowing where he is going, but how many stories he has now... Hoping that he will share them with me, I return to the stove. The water was boiling and it was time to make tea.