'Be careful, do not step on the broken glass', he said.
That Soviet cut-glass vase was my favourite -- it's gracefulness and modesty reminded me of one lady.
Practically, I should say an old lady, but the power that she had inside herself had always veneered her real age. Not a single person was interested in that: she used to keep everyone wordless and numb wherever she showed up. It always seemed to me as she was hiding that sparkly fairy dust in her tiny red vintage bag and was secretly strewing it in front of everyone's eyes just to make them happy. She wanted those eyes to indulge in the real beauty at least for a moment.
Strangely enough, I still feel this hedonistic spark in my stomach every time I remember her.
I adored that lady because she looked like she had gotten out from the fairy tale - the one with the perfect world and perfect people like her - yet got lost here and could never find the way back.
So as my vase. It used to keep my flowers and thus myself alive in there. Carnations, sunflowers, roses, but most of the time lilies -- my beloved ones.
That misty morning white lilies were sleeping next to the broken glass on the floor. Inglorious and full of guilt. However, I could still feel that perfect smell which drowns my sorrow every single time. It drowns me into the state of weightlessness...
-- But he made her get down to the earth. She could have stepped on the crystal glass and feel nothing. That same fragile state that belonged only to her for so long moved to the new context. To the new hands. --
[ Let me share some extraordinary instagram photos of the joyful and inspiring day spent feeling like I'm a real hipster. ]
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[ And for the sake of procrastination - if we ever meet during the apocalypse of zombies. ]
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