2024 Author: Harry Day | [email protected]. Last modified: 2023-12-17 15:43
A plasticine man, he is not sad and not cheerful, he walks back and forth through cities and villages, he is crumpled, shabby, crushed and dented, everyone around him is quietly silent, maybe he is gentle, maybe he is strict, no one ever he recognizes wit, his heart is full of unrecognized pain, full of grief and fear, and will, and wants to escape and hide in the shadows, walks through life looking sideways.
A plasticine man he is always one on one, feelings of fear and anger crush his soul, make noise, torment and speak down to him about their haughty and low thoughts, look from afar, at him, as if from above, but at the same time from within, they gave in his hands a rag, they say, on, wipe, the mirrors in which you look in the morning and evening, what do you see there? Nothing? You, three, three, stronger, bolder, we observe from the outside, your flight is known to you and me, you are dented and broken, but so, neatly, what is inside, is not noticeable, indistinct, no one will see it anywhere, wipe it mirrors so that they shine everywhere, your reflection carries chiaroscuro, you woke up late, thoughtful, frosty, you can't get warm, there is no point in getting distracted, vice and emptiness, they are inside, they are with you, plasticine man, open your eyes, look inside yourself, look, be horrified, you see those hands, do you believe in them as I do? haze, haze, haze, haze, haze, haze.
A pliable material for sculpting figures, it is soft while you knead it, while you rub it, hold life in your hands, warm it, take care, let it go, throw it on the floor, it will dry out, harden, turn into fire, frozen, frozen like a resin stone, a plasticine person, outside like dirt, imperceptible, gray, dull and even, as everything can be, and maybe new, hands wrinkle him from the inside, hands are warm and alive, moving away from them he loses all strength, it so happened that there is this world is absurd, often unconditional acceptance of life, the part that fills your vessel, thinking absurdly, absurdly believing that a plasticine man runs away from himself, he is used to being crumpled, to tear, shredded, to be mixed with dust, and then cleaned so that it is obliquely straight, and then chaotically, life flows like it can't be and it is logical, he is nobody, never and nowhere, take a closer look around and notice everything, look carefully in the mirror in the hall, if it's hard to see, wipe with a cloth, it seems scary to be like him, but it seems no, plasticine is not plastids, he does not bring troubles, there is no outside of what is inside, warm hands, fear, rag, mirror, you.
Plasticine you, plasticine age, life drags on, the light will end, that the hands squeezed you so sadly, where did they come from, and who needs it all, pour over you with fear, stroke you with anger, sadness, crush with guilt, tear with shame, stroke gently with courage, feelings After all, so much has been pressed into you, how much is not and will not be, everything does not happen in vain, warm hands, warm, touch, crumple, mother's hands? Maybe they will erase, what clings to you, what stretches, clings, shines, blows, rushes, everywhere and here, will their hands protect you from the sun and storms? Will they sculpt a man or weave some nonsense? Is it a head or an ass, what happened, tell me, you can at least think, but talk, but live? The plasticine world and the hands of the creator, emptiness, the wind howls and the door without a palace.
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