I feel death more and more deeply—not as drama, an ending, or another stage. But rather, like weather, humidity, or texture—so all-encompassing. For years, I longed for it but never recognized it, and now I do—without mistake. It feels like the soft embrace of a lover. He holds me from behind, and though I cannot yet see him, I feel him with my entire being. We will tear a light sleep from a heavy branch, so sweet it is – such dreams are so rare. He has returned after a thousand thousand years, yet he was always within me. I always knew that everyone would disappear, but he was the exception. I waited.

Of course, he is an abstraction. I love to give my love a face.

So much is being done, every hour is filled, yet his hands have reached into mine, making them weak and trembling with love and peace. And every task feels like a distraction from him, an irritation, but it does not bring bad emotions or even exhaustion. I just do things as if through a haze. As if those things do not exist at all. The mind is empty, attention is gone, I don’t understand what people are saying, but my heart is warm and unburdened, compressed like a ball of dough, heated by loving hands, still waiting for their return. And it feels as if there is no body—just a weight when I walk. Everything here is becoming foreign—objects, walls, even my mother. I know who these people are, but I do not recognize them, do not feel them. I only love my dog. I have poured all my love into her, and I see in her eyes that she is with me. If she weren’t here, I could leave already. I think about it with relief, but then I look into her eyes and stay.

I do not love spring, nor summer—too long are the days. I love eternal darkness. I do not understand the light; it feels unreal to me. In complete darkness, I feel death better. Like returning home.

I cannot answer myself why I will still return to university in the fall. I hope, I truly hope, that it will cease to exist along with all its professors, for any reason, even the worst one. But still, if not, I will go there again. A semblance of activity so that no one bothers me at home? But no one really bothers me anyway. It hurts me deeply to be a disappointment. I wish I didn’t care, but for some reason, it has become my pain.

I want to live—what else can I do if life does not come to me? Everyone around me has something, but I do not. It’s as if everyone is running along invisible bridges and staircases, and I am standing still, unable to see where to place my feet. As if I lack some sense. I do not understand how people find joy, and I do not understand people themselves. And everything I have ever tried in life—none of it worked. I can feel that the next academic year will be a disaster. The workload keeps increasing, yet my mind feels weaker, as do my will and attention. It is bitter and even enraging that I will have to leave for that rotten university in that rotten capital and leave my beloved dog behind. My bond with her is strong—there have been many dogs, but never a bond like this. Every time I leave for the station in a taxi and look into her eyes one last time, a piece of my heart stays behind, torn out with flesh.

These hands feel closer and closer. And it feels as if the best thing I could do is to lie naked on a cold, hard floor—my heart growing warmer. They say that on the other side, in that world, just as vast, a sun shines—unknown to us, but known to those who have gone. And the more loved ones on that shore, the clearer it becomes. But I have neither river nor shore—only a drop left to wait, until the embrace finally closes around me.