I realized that outside of time, the Kiev that exists today and the Kiev that existed a thousand years ago is the same.
I also realized the other day that you need a glimmer of happiness inside you to be able to tell sad stories – so that you have perspective.
The act of telling itself is dependent on timing. It’s the wrong time to tell the story I am about to tell you.
Of course, it helps that it isn’t really a story. It’s just another pattern stitched somewhere on the sleeve of the universe.
In this pattern, I am younger and I am a blonde instead of a redhead. There is a hand holding my blond ponytail. That hand is twisted away by another hand.
It’s summer in Kiev, it’s a national holiday (or there was just a concert downtown, or football – right away, there are parts I am no longer sure of), there is a fair amount of revelers downtown, some of them drunk, and these two security guards are particularly drunk and belligerent, and they’ve just graduated from verbal abuse to touching, and between encountering them and what is happening now no more than a minute has (probably) passed, and I am too stunned to do anything about it in that very moment, so in that very moment, a Berkut officer gets them off of me with such frightening efficiency that I am too scared to thank him at first, lest he is about to go after me next. Continue reading