Сътворих това велико произведение на българската белетристика на английски език. Не знам дали е много редно да го пускам тука, в Меката на българската реч, слово и азбука, но не ми се занимава да си правя блог в/чрез Wordpress, само защото Музата ми днес ми шепти на англиийски в ушенцето.... Та ако не си абсолютно погнусен от чуждата реч и за теб и за българшината ти не е обида този чуждоезиков шедьовър, то фийл фрий ту тейк ъ луук :)

THE MILES I WALK

I try to walk every day. I just have to. So I do it like a robot.

I have my shades, my cap, my music in my ears and I go.

I walk the streets and the paths in the parks, but I am not there. If you call me, I will not answer. If you scream to me, I will not pay attention to you. If you die next to me, I will just pass you by. Not because I do not care. I am just not there.

But the world is. And I am there to see it. Not like you see it. Or at least not exactly like you.

I observe the changes and the rhythms around and it is just me and the world – like no one is there but me.

I am not lonely. Not at all. I like it that way. It is easy not to see all that people do and not to hear all that people say. Just to see whatever you want to see.

So I put my shields, my screens – my capsule is ready and I am off.

Eight flights of stairs and the sun is on my fair skin.

I look into the mail box expecting something and then I take the old black street.

The nosy people from the cafй see me leave, but I do not notice them. I just go.

I listen to the music I love and soon I smell the jasmine bush. I take a deep breath. The bush is all alone in the middle of a small patch of pruned grass. Even the intoxicated bugs cannot take it away from its loneliness.

After a brief fragrant moment I am racing with the new buses for one song time.

I reach the newly paved sidewalks and I wonder why they destroyed the old ones – they were perfectly fine – very high when I was a child. Not anymore.

I am close to the gypsies’ district. I resent it. All the flowers there are gone, all the humanity with them, too. They try to look me in the eye, but they cannot see me. They look at me, they judge me. They know they cannot take me or any of my stuff, so they pretend not to notice me. Or they just smile at me: “This time you’re safe. Just this time…”.

There are other people who live there. Their houses are like little fortresses – high fences, bars on the windows and balconies. They’ve been robbed many times – they have no choice.

It is all grey around there. I hate it. I try to walk faster. I try not to breathе too deeply so that the smell won’t revolt me.

And then, all of a sudden I see a tiny garden. I turn my head for a moment and try to peek through the fence. The roses are bloody red; there are minute white star-like flowers beneath them and a short path leading to the front door of that little fortress. My eyes follow the path. There is a man sitting in a purple lawn chair observing the flowers. Silent. He has a cane in his hands, his legs seem motionless and his hands weak. He sees me, but he doesn’t speak. I think he is not well. Then I realize that this is the reason why he’s looking at those flowers. He is trying to have them imprinted in his memory. He likes them, he protects them. He does not see the grey dirty street behind the fence. He has his illness and his flowers. He rests among them in his purple chair.

I walk faster there. I do not turn to the right; I just follow the inclined street.

The gypsies go in the old pub. I can hear them through my music, they stain it.

The street makes a turn and I go along. The kindergarten and the school are on the two sides of the street – all full of children. Some cry, some laugh, most of them are talking on their phones. I didn’t have a phone when I was a child. I had friends instead.

I am in town centre now. The old communist buildings are all restored. The old quarter, too. I do not look much at them, because I can see the mountains and my sight is set free.

I cannot wait to reach the river. The path goes along it and small birds are all around. I try not to notice the people who scare the birds. They are all in their capsules – they do not see me, but now I see them. I destroy my capsule at that point and let the birds and the river in.

The path is long. I strive to reach the place I love the most – the meditation spot. I sit there, if there is no one around. Just the other day a tiny spider and a tiny dog joined me briefly on that bench without ruining my experience. I was glad.

I walk faster now. I pass the bridge over the river, then the pond with the pedal boats in shape of swans, the runners, the bikers, the power walker - all pass by.

I am on my way back.

The same pictures – different light. I try not to notice. I am tired. I have no strength to look if the sick man is with his flowers, I cannot smell the jasmine. I am in my capsule again, separated from all that is around me. You can talk to me, but I will not hear you. You can wave at me, but I will not see you. I miss the pure water, the river grass and the birds. They are far now. Until tomorrow…