My Spring – My Youth

I just want to remember my spring, my summer. Her red hair, burning like fire in the sun. The smell of fir trees and the morning mist. A night storm with tears and a blanket, pancakes out of our house at seven in the morning. A ton of cigarettes smoked by children’s lungs. And flowers. Lots of colors. Lots of music. It was all in our little town, our woods. 

Every time I go there, I feel a sharp pain. It’s not like that. Everything changes: other people, other amusements, and other desires. However, when I leave, I realize that the lilac is still blooming inside. 

This spring, we experienced a lot of things. Terrible tragedies, dramas, sorrows, at the same time passion, love, satisfaction. This is our youth, filled with bitterness and carelessness. 

How many cigarettes did we smoke sitting on logs, surrounded by perennial trees and lots of midges? How many songs did we sing while sitting on the prickly grass next to the sand pits? 

“Operation Plasticine”[1]. Perfume. Lipsticks. 

We ran away from the house, climbed into the attic, in which we did not even live yet. And in the summer, we did everything we wanted there. 

You remember, of course, when we opened the attic door and looked up at the sky. They put pillows on the doorstep and lay on them, looking at the clouds that looked like tubers. A passing plane. We immediately ran for phones to capture it in photos. Someone who says that photos are just moments where you look happy, one moment before the camera flashes. 

But then, you and I weren’t happy in an instant. We’ve been happy all this time. And no matter how much we say that we want to die, that we are tired of everything, together we are one whole that can not feel sadness. When you are alone, grief consumes you completely and no one can share it with you. But we weren’t alone. 

We are one. 

Our summer is over, but every year it will be repeated: love, carelessness and youth, no matter how old we will be.

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