But everything will eventually pass.
And then at least hit the wall - you can’t turn back time ...
Then what does it give us - an elusive, impalpable and yet extremely precise substance flowing through the years and fingers?
More than 20 years ago, around the same days of January, before the oldest New Year, I ended up on Sparrow Hills.
Closer to midnight.
With company.
And it snowed.
I have never seen such snow before.
In large flakes, he whitened everything around in five minutes, and then began even more so.
We rushed to the river.
Who has been, you know - there is a forest park, glades, lanterns in a blizzard haze.
Nice.
And in one clearing we, without saying a word, rushed to sculpt a snowman.
I have never seen a snowman like this.
It wasn't just huge, it was intimidating.
We ourselves were up to our ears in the snow and soaked, but it was impossible to stop us.
We gave that snowman our hat too - we found one extra in our pocket, and we built his nose from a tangerine.
The snowman turned out to be absolutely heroic.
They made the eyes out of something...
And the snow didn't stop.
And at some point I fell into a parallel space, as if I didn’t exist at all - only white-white around, and a frosty spirit, and the wind in my head.
And snow.
He erased the past, mixed times and years, he dissolved us in himself and opened doors for us...
Impossible to express in words.
It was the ultimate, childish delight.
We both laughed and rolled around that clearing ... And then we got tired and went home.
It’s good that we didn’t have anything with us, only our age ... We were thirty years old.
Completely grown boys.
You know, a miracle is very easy to scare away.
It's timid, that's it.
And when, without additional stimulants, bubbles of joy and happiness inflate you, like a balloon, you feel the best...
Yes.
Exactly.
We went home.
By taxi.
The cars were barely moving.
There was enough time to think.
And I caught by the tail what was spinning in my head while we indulged with desperate ease in the children's fun of winter.
I caught snow.
And the voice of Nikitin.
It all came together right then.
The impossibility of returning childhood.
The inability to return the father.
The inability to re-live the past.
Like an electric current, but not a blow - the slow burning of a powerful lamp, a beacon inside.
And I sang softly, paying no attention to the driver and his radio.
I sang two songs mixed up, I would never have thought that it was possible ...
It's snowing, it's snowing.
To the white stars in the blizzard
Stretching geranium flowers
For the window frame...
No one will be in the house
Except twilight. One
Winter day in a through hole
Uncurtained curtains...
At home, I was completely covered.
In one night, for the first time, I really watched both The Irony of Fate and Old New Year.
For real, how is it?
This is when he lived with the heroes.
Of course, the meanings scattered into quotes were spinning in my head for many years, but there was no awareness ...
Here Nikitin connected, closed the circuits.
His melodies.
Poems of Pasternak.
And here it is never a matter of Nikitin or Pasternak.
I don't know what's the matter.
In the snow
Which everyone once lives through himself and through and through.
The meaning is huge.
The seeming whirlwind of snow, chaotic, in our opinion, is the essence of our life.
We fly and hurry, meet and connect with someone previously unknown, then lie down on the ground to one day become water that feeds grass and trees.
“Who thinks how to live better, and who thinks how to be better ...”, “The fire is not terrible for a beggar ...”
“God, how boring we live!
We lost the spirit of adventurism!
We stopped climbing through the windows to the women we love;
we stopped doing big and good stupid things…”
New Year's Eve, another and, God willing, not the last, has come to an end.
Both the New Year and the old New Year are all in the past.
So what are we thinking now, children grown from toys and tinsel?
About the future holiday.
About the future sparkling celebration.
We are incorrigible.
Men are generally incorrigible.
We live our dreams and ideals...
Like a weirdo
From the top staircase
Sneak around playing hide and seek
The sky is coming down from the attic.
But suddenly on the curtain
Doubt will tremble.
Silence with steps
You, like the future, will enter.
Dreams and ideals...
And winter will come again.
And again we will go to get a Christmas tree, happiness, that one, without which we do not need anything in life.
I wanted to write about Sergei Nikitin.
Forgive me, some other time.
And with all your holidays.
Give us God.
It's snowing, it's snowing
The snow is falling and everything is in turmoil:
a whitewashed pedestrian,
amazing plants,
Crossroad turn.
You will appear from the door
In something white, without quirks,
In something really from those matters,
From which flakes are sewn.
The point of view of the author may not coincide with the position of the editors.