On the Wings of Hope: Prose (Recognized)

Ill one

"So you are saying "love". And what's a thing is that, exactly? Did anyone ever touch it with his hands? A pure physiology is that so-called love of yours, and nothing more than that! Actually, the most advanced scientists of our technological century have just managed to prove recently that love is no more than a certain sort of physical indisposition, caused by a higher than normal grade of certain hormones in the blood of man's body... Mad shining of human eyes, frankly idiotic smiles on their faces, absolutely unhealthy euphoria, lack of concentration, impartiality, and ability to the cold-blooded analysis of objective reality... it's truly a disease, is it not?"

"Do you understand of where are you going and where you will finally come?"

"Oh, don't you worry so for my destiny, I beg you – I do perfectly understand everything! The degree of Dr. Sci. Biol. does mean something after all, yes?"

"It means nothing in another world."

"I would, you know, be quite satisfied even with this one. For the beginning."

"For the beginning of the end?"

"For the beginning of ultimate triumph of scientific and exclusively rational approach in all spheres of human relations, certainly. And, well, "bionics and psychopathy of feelings" as advanced branch of neurobiology. Love in its essence is, in fact, no more than a certain fiction, which has been thought up by these silly romantic poets and other crazies. The physiological inclination of genders can be simply described from the point of view of the endorphins-biotic analysis of molecular processes, taking place in organisms of individuals under test..."

"You never truly loved anyone, did you? That's why you won't allow this to others as well."

"Oh, mind you, mind you! None of us forbids you from "loving" each other even eight times a day. Just don't name banal physiological demands with such a term."

"And what about the spiritual relationship of close souls?"

"No souls have ever existed. Neither you, nor I, nor anyone else has it. The matter is, as they say, still a matter even in Africa. In truth, all our existence is no more than some kind of fiction. Casual combination of circumstances, if you prefer. Unpredictable opportunity, which, in compliance with the theory of random numbers..."

"It turns out that you are random and casual as well?"

"No, on the contrary, it's you who are casual! And we only skillfully support this sort of illusion in you."

"But... how... who are you?"

"We are the foreign thoughts. Silly, insignificant ones... yet so annoying and convincing... And you are the pawns in our hands. We govern over you through other people who have already been enslaved by us..."

"You! Back off, infection!"

"You are casual... casual... casual... Everything is random... random... random... There is no you... there is no love... there is no joy... there is no light... there is no future... there are only us... us... us..."

***

"Faugh, damn it! What a horrific dream!" muttered Vasily, clearing his eyes. "That's all due to a constant sleep debt, I guess. Silly lecturer keeps on muttering some nonsense behind a chair... one can easily fall down asleep here."

"Vasya, hey, Vasya! What's that – were you sleeping?" and Lenka slightly stuck her neighbor – and, by a total nonrandom combination of circumstances her beloved as well, a hand sideways. "Have you heard of what a lecturer was saying? He says that love was recently classified by scientists as an illness, and was even assigned a certain number in the scientific literature. Do you believe him, Vasya?"

"May he get off!" Vasily waved his hand. "He probably never loved anyone in his life himself, and won't allow for others as well. Listen... let's go to the cinema just after a lecture?"

"All right!" Lenka smiled, and put her head to Vasily's shoulder, having languidly looked in his eyes. "Darling..." she whispered gently.

"My only one..." he responded with all his soul.

12.04.2013