There are things difficult to talk and write about. As a classic told “These words are on the border of consciousness in the place where poetry lives and miracles are born”.

We can’t talk about our love. We are brought up like this: don’t talk about love, all is said about it. Prove it with deeds. And we set out on this journey if we are brave enough, not knowing what is awaiting us. Delusion that makes us feel dizzy. The altitude taking our breath away. The tailwind taking us away, the head wind knocking us over.

My first love happened when I was a child.

I remember us walking through the snowy streets of the Kazakhstan’s town: he is squeezing my hand, pulling me ahead, I almost run trying to keep pace, but I’m just six and I can’t keep up. I look at him, tall, blue eyed, with white frosted mustache, and he takes me to his arms and carries over the road. Reliable, kind father’s hands promised safety of all of the roads, including life paths. First chess tour, upbringing intellectual and first gun shooting in apiary upbringing the character. “Mamma-jamma monster, I will win again!” – promised his voice with guitar chords of Vysotsky’s song. He probably won because there’s not a single day when I don’t remember him though he smiles with his best in the world smile captured in marble.

Lara Lychagina,


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