Moscow Jan 2019
The beauty of a nation that still lingers with an undercurrent of darkness. They are not pessimistic; they are prepared. Given the invitation to hang their heavy cloak of fear, if only for a few hours, sparks them into a cheer of joyous celebration, dancing in the room like fairies, imagining it could be like this forever.
But it does not.
I am marred by a world from 20 years ago. A way of being, a belief system, a corruption, an understanding that nothing, nothing, is easily understood. Common sense and predictability are notions found in fairy tales, not in this country. This country’s common thread is not common at all, but rather the production of a select group of men, the script written by one man at a time. Preciously, the writer was very imaginative for his own benefit, but the new man scribbles his script for the people, his people. It will take more time than this to unhinge the dark veil from its curtain rods. The fabric falls to the floor, heavy, tumbling, and the deep dark ink weeps from these curtains and seeps into the motherland. She will carry the burden, mostly unnoticed, save for the occasional flash of a dark scar on pure pale skin.
I wish for these people to be happy. To see life as joyous and spontaneous, to understand that luck is real and it can so often go in your favour. That bread can be moist, food fresh and in fermented.
The veil has lifted, but their hearts... can they float?
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