19.04.19.

I haven't been feeling well these last few days. It started on Sunday, when the muscles in my shoulders formed a painful, heavy collar around my neck, preventing me from moving, sitting, working, or even lying down.

I do a lot of weird things. First, I now sit not at the table, but on the sofa, put a pouf under my feet and put a shoe table from the corridor next to it so that I can put coffee or tea on it. I don't eat very well and I don't look so-so. I don't have the strength for myself, and I don't expect to. I'm exhausted.

Here and now I am calm, I am purified, nothing happens to me. The condition is broken only by pain in the right shoulder – today is Saturday and I have been sitting at the computer since Monday. I thought I just don't have the right chair to sit in. Well, I even agreed with myself to buy a gaming chair for seven thousand, I was looking for a long time, so that there were no acid colors, but in the end, when I already filled out the form, it turned out that the site does not have installments, and the next day my boss cut my salary just for these seven thousand.

I heard the chorus: you make this all go away, you make this all go away, and it's like whole defensive walls, old towers were falling down inside my house, like a house was being demolished. I burst into tears as I stared at my reflection. I haven't seen any other people in about a week. I just want something, I just want something I can never have.

I think the night is a living creature; that it is such an Oriental woman in a fur coat, with a soft down around her round lips, that she hypnotizes all the vulnerable, all the sensitive - in short, such as I am. When she takes off her fur coat, which is in the middle of a regular play, and the light around her greenish moonlight body is scattered over her black, diamond-studded dress, it becomes impossible to sleep; here we can only watch the measured movements of her eyelashes and wait for her to finally leave.

Every night is like the sea to me – I feel its vibrations around my body; this water, so dense that it can be cut with a table knife; I meet mysterious glittering, gloomy fish – all that remains with me are these witnesses and active continuers of my memory.

As soon as I start writing or speaking, the power of the wave leads me, never betraying, always soothing, whipping my restless attention to some long-awaited shore. But the fish - those dark faces - still sometimes make my blood thicken, strain my muscles , and it gives me an amazing discomfort to try to realize myself at the depth of the ocean. Try to look into the face of at least one of your slippery fish.

I will name one - a Dog. In fact, it has a different name, or even several, since it was modeled from the images of several people. This is what I called my lover's wife, but this same fish often turns right in front of my pupils into someone completely new and different, someone I didn't know yet or have already forgotten, preserving its special, general grin.

I write these things so that there will be no confusion later. I noticed that the brain started working differently because of the neuroleptics, or maybe not because of them, in general, I lose my memory, it scares me, but I can't think of anything better than keeping a diary.

The last time I saw her, or rather heard her, she was in Moscow with D., at home. They both called me on the phone. I was so surprised when I heard her voice – it was completely sweet and soft, not a single bump. And she told me so calmly that D. had come to see her himself, and that she did not want him to leave, because she was going through a difficult period in her life. A difficult period in life!

A difficult period began for me the next second, when I hung up. And so every time – I adopt someone's difficult period. I haven't been able to sleep at night since then, even though it's been two months.

But the thought that makes her sharp fins constantly chatter around my drowned hair - Oh, this thought is not related to D. I just think, what if the only way to live is to be impersonal and dim, like she is in my memory – to be the same in the memory of other people, what if I don't really exist, and the only bit of sympathy I can get is the silt of a faceless stranger's memory? This glimmer – her fin – the flickering light of her life – she has come back together, it seems, with D. - so does it mean that there are people who love each other? But why, even when you get your own back, do you have to steal someone else's for a moment?

Its reflection is all that sprinkles my desolate existence. A drop of envy for her is the engine of my submarine. But it is slipping away from me so quickly, lost in my increasingly prevailing indifference, leaving a cloud of ink in its wake. What I am. Calling "I" - it's just a condensation of her ink - it's black drops. In fact, I have been gone for a long time, not these two months, but many, many years before – I don't know if anything will change, or if it will stay that way forever. I wander the ocean inside me, and the wave licks the corners of my sharp holes. And the only thing I would like is new scales for fish.

All the cities were silent except for the lights.

You are a huge, smart, fish,

Floating in their wet flashes.

You give me wonderful views

And I indulge in, patting you on the slippery side.

I don't hear you coming,

Just waves hitting me,

Always stun

 them to death.

Amazing purple highlights,

I'm learning to bathe in the light,

I'm learning not to be afraid of the cold,

Enjoy the glow of the sea.