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Friday, February 29, 2008

One ordinary move

this is a short story

She made a move, wanting only to leave the
five-cornered, glassed-in space, two angles of which
shook in that moment with cigarette smoke and faint
shadows that played before her, not allowing her to
fully comprehend them, to see again their boring, dead
shapes, for who knows how many times before now, the
boring and dead shapes that had almost disappeared now
in a flash of light, only to be again, periodically,
moving forward toward her, tricking her, wanting to
make her stop believing in their presence. About them
she would think sometimes, walking from room to room,
that they were eternal and unbreakable in their glass
and concrete consistency, inherent with every little
part mortared and cemented (in her vision at that
moment) forever; and that move started to look to her
familiar and tired, so in the blink of an eye in her
mind there started to fly thousands and thousands of
images of that move, and in every image the
expressions or nuances of her face were different, and
there were hundreds of images almost completely
identical, which differed only by millimeters, and
sometimes with even smaller differences, for example
in the arch of her eyebrow, then with uncountable,
fantastically small differences (which she was able to
discern very easily) in the position of her eyelids,
and each image, with its infinitesimal
characteristics, she was able to represent to herself
in her mind, one, two or three of them, or all of them
at the same time; and than she started to think about
how she wouldn't be able to get rid of any of those
images, and that thought scared her (even though she
wasn't certain that there was a reason to be scared),
and because of the authenticity of this strange,
unreal event (she heard in that moment a woman calling
her child from the steps of the building), she lost
herself completely and discomfort took hold of her
with the next thought -What if I spend the rest of
my life only with remembrances and recollections of
these thousands and thousands of images in my mind -
because they would have, most believably, the dominant
role in all her future contemplations; because she had
already felt, she was almost completely convinced of
that, realizing the reality of this remembrance, its
superior nature over everything else, and of course
that didn't bring any joy; she felt goose bumps passing
over her skin like a little army of ants racing all
over her body; and after that she started to worry
(she was physically still perfectly calm, unable to
move, completely convinced about the numbness of her
body), and she started to suspect: What if I won't be
able to get rid of this remembrance at all, through
all 24 hours of the day, for now it could come only
for a part of a second, but what if my curiosity
becomes limitless (and that's very likely to be); what
if I want to see only one of these thousands of
images? Only one, in all its fullness, with every pore
on my face (and now she was able to see that, not only
in one but in approximately a thousand images at the
same time); who knows for how much time I could watch
it and think about it; maybe my whole life won't be
enough for that; and what if I want to see only two
images, with the eternity of their characteristics;
what if I want to put those pictures in my thoughts,
like in mirrors; and what if I at last might want to
imagine all those images, all thousands and thousands
of faces, in a second; would it be interesting to look
at them? Those faces, once stamped in the memory,
they'll never get old (are they going to get old after
all?); will it be interesting to see them after one
year, after five or ten or twenty years - she was
having forebodings as she was thinking about all this
and she was able to spend eternity like that, but she
decided to stop all that; she decided to start
thinking how to get rid of the move, how to break the
inertness of her body, which had all numbed
unpleasantly; she couldn’t comprehend how much time
she had spent standing like this; she'd lost awareness
of the passing of time; that's why she tried to move
her right hand a little bit; and she succeeded despite
the numbness, goose bumps and inertia of the body; a
little while after that, deliberating and starting to
move her body again, part by part, making it mobile,
she stepped into the kitchen wanting to see what time
it was, those first steps were fresh and easy; she was
stepping like after a good dream and felt good
generally; and when she looked at the clock hanging on
the wall everything become so ordinary again, and all
the thousands and thousands of faces that had been
stamped in her memory forever looked so insignificant
to her that she never paid attention to them anymore.



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