Look into my eyes

Are you ready for the test? Blink. Now the text appears in front of you, even though you hear my voice. Focus on the voice inside your head, let it wash away the illusion of letters and show you the pictures of another world, let yourself forget about what existed up to this moment. Let the cave vaults fade, just keep looking into my eyes and listening.

From one illusion to another, I will show you different stories. You will see a lot in them, but there is no single thing that would not come from your subconscious. The past, desires, experience? Call it what you want, but know that the story that you see will not be seen by anyone but you. And me, showing more and more pictures of the magical world, in which you will peer and look for confirmation of your guesses, reveal yourself and find unexpected feelings and thoughts. If you cope with the test, you will be able to travel the worlds. If not, you will gain experience. A look from the mirror of the soul, which may help you another time when you want to go through.

Now forget what I said and imagine...

... He felt time and its streams; he measured it by himself and celebrated like holidays. Each summer was a small life, and everything happened for the first time.

The first bonfire of the year and scorched hair on the fingers. The first grass, caressing the eyes, and eaten dandelion, sweetish and smearing yellow pollen. The first bicycle ride and the first dug out garden bed. A stoked stove and overnight in a wooden house, the first radish, sorrel, and dill. Behind them - honeysuckle berry, strawberry, apple, plum. First mushroom found, yellowed leaf and the first ice in the barrels. The first snow, blizzard, and after a long wait - a joyful first rain.

Besides the first things, there were the latest, joyful and sad: berries and swimming, trips to a wooden house, meetings with friends in the country world. The last sweets in the New Year's gift and the last school lessons before the holidays.

And between the first and the last they were the only and unique: moonlit nights giving the mystery and poetry; and gray rainy days, full of comfort and dreams. Walks to new places, new acquaintances and the only, no longer repetitive games, stories, creative impulses, and creations.

He celebrated them as holidays, and they marked him, left traces on his body and memory, climbed into his soul. Burns and abrasions, cuts and bruises, stains of juice and dirt, scars and crusts of sintered blood was their marks and gifts, as well as new thoughts and desires, sweet memories and light hopes, a sense of beautiful and unusual magical unity with the world.

He was all impregnated with them, he consisted of them. He remembered everything. Long boring evenings as well as fun, scary twilights. Touch of a slimy something in a muddy river, views of the sky and smell of fresh air; lightness, warmth, and a group of friends.

And then suddenly time is up.

Time was taken away by flabby vegetables and fruits, which were sold during the whole year, and did not grow under the window. Time was taken away by the distance and deeds. Studying came, and there is no more the first sip of birch sap or the first berry. Work came, and there is neither lightness nor spaciousness. The distance came, and now there is no country world.

It is difficult to squeeze the infinity and carelessness of the past into the framework of two weeks of vacation. Even if you rely on it during the whole year to do business, even if you falling in the evenings from fatigue and not waking up on weekends. Vacation started to mean solving long-running problems, and it was neither enough to do the accumulated work, nor to rest. Time is over. He took it away from himself.

Time ceased to leave its marks. It was flying by without a touch. The man stopped celebrating it. He missed the holidays, and felt not a bitter feeling of resentment, but... Imagine the feeling which you feel when you wanted to play with friends in the morning but slept until dinner and no one woke you up, although everyone was waiting - this feeling settled in his soul, and it was embarrassing to go out and expose himself to a new time traces. It became a shame to celebrate. It became a shame to live.

Only occasionally did the beauty of the world turn out to be stronger than new way of existence. Occasionally the old marks of time made itself felt. He began to look over them, realizing that he could not soon enjoy the treasures of the past. Without time, the memory from the keeper of secrets turned into a storehouse of tasks and appointments, and there were more and more of them.

So he decided to give away what he valued - to those who appreciate it, who can understand, who still enjoys life. To those who are able to start doing it again. He assembled a life from the celebrated holidays and the marks - its milestones. And he wished that the pure moments remain pure and protected. While giving himself away part by part, and storing pieces in another world, he came up with a defense, hoping that the magic and the facets of the personality that left him - would exist after his death. Hoping that the world, created or found, and its inhabitants would live. And celebrate the time.