>>Writings

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Written by: David Norton, davenorton @ operamail.com

Translated by: Ancient Mariner

I remember a morning, you know? A morning, made by a whole blend of such mornings. A morn you awake in to hear the sounds that were surrounding you so much time, that you feel them as an irrevocable detail of its texture. And it brings to you a kind of irrational feeling of peace. A morn in which you don't want to take away your eyes from the sleep. But you feel how everything on this world moves up, and you know: Now you will stand up, you'll wash your face, but you will stiil be both sleepy and lively, when you'll meet your father's smiled eyes, who will say to you "hi, friend". And then someone's loving hands will take you into somewhere... At this time of past you have never thought about these hands, they were hiding somewhere around you, they have created all your childhood. But this is already a feeling and knowledge of an older human. When this was heppening, you were just without any bothering, you are just walking through the world, you are walking in the wildly clear, fresh and bright summer morning, you absorb and tremble because of its early wind; you see the way the sun arises and blinds the bus driver while he is trying to look attentively on the way ahead. But you feel so great to see this arising light. And the disgusting bus cough noise is so necessary and important part of this memory, that it calls smile on your face - just in the way you were smiling at that time, and again - as it was - you put your look just right to the way ahead. And when you pass several times on this way, you begin to memorize - even if you don't want to - the meanders, the turns, discontinuities, the street faces, their expression, their inclination and signs, all this - as a part of an unknown friend, who is playing with you. Sometimes you are surprised if the bus chooses another way, and you touch another unknown friend...

Such kind of things I am remembering in this strange, unique morning, dear friend - today, when I am much more lazy, I ommit so often this sunrise light. But everytime I meet it, I do hug it - the way I have did it in the past. Don't ever ask me about it, and I will never say it, even someday you could occasionaly to see this - I do say "hi" to the sun, when it touches my senses.

I saw a child while I was awaking - a child who was lifting up his hand. And so missknowledgely, simple, but forward, and may be understanding more than anyone - he is lookong at you with an absorbing look, with unpeaceful feeling, and he - just like this - he'll touch the thing that cought his attention, tenaciously will keep his look on it. And if it is necessary, he will turn back his head to the back, why the loving hands are leading him away. A child who finds the new freedom and stick his own little nose on the bus' window. Or runs into the park's trees. Or touches the shop window with his finger. Or sees with both interest and fear the noisy, fullwater mountain river, shining under the daylight sun.

And today me and you are sinking in a "one-sided" world - the our one, the peculiar one, in which neverchanging worries, questions and answers are echoing, we argue and fight for things; And now I am able to take a look on all this differently, as a side man. And all of you are looking so simpathetic to me; and so much of our fightings are looking to me so funny; because the answers are simple, because the smile on someone's lips may be so natural to a child, he may wait so strongly this smile. Because we are jangling for asomething in the room, the anger is rounding in circles in the air, and look - a child is lifting his hand into our window, with open little mouth is touching with his finger the cold transparent window surface, and is smiling. In this moment a smile appears on my own lips too, and I can hug anyone of you, with all of his good and bad sides and features... And this which makes us so different than the other people, and wich brings us so much problems - yes, we do know what it is, why it is, and that it is stupid in its own base, that it eats so much of our forces.

And we are who we are.

And how sudden looks it, when is projected on the lifted child hand, on the background of the child sensitiveness, on the background of a simple smile. Because it seems like in its eyes we are just another of the endless features of the world, which is coming back with the eyes opening.

And in the next second we will hug again our arguments, we will stand our understanding. The right to hug and kiss the human we love on the street, to run into each other. And we will bring water from all the sources on this world we could reach. And sometimes it is so easy to forget where in fact you are going to. Till you awake in the morning of your own. Till you reach the sea of your own. Then all the clumsity of the circumstances falls down, and there remains it - among all the other things - remains the thing that is so simple, that we could never find the words for it. That we could never spell its charge nor sense.

The thing that someone is tracking the starways; that someone is not sleeping in the night of someone's illness; that a man kisses the loved man; that a boy and a girl don't want to be apart; that somwhere girls in love sleep in each other hands. That a child is saying loudly the truth which noone in the whole kingdom won't confess. That somewhere you do exist my dear friend, and may be I will never find the way leading to you, nevertheless how much I am trembling under the pressure of my own impulses.