Marat has reminded me of the summer.
I think what I liked most was in Kyrgyzstan, the city. All these landscapes were beautiful, the lake, the mountains, the villages, but the city has inspired me. She is so full of contradictions, full of vitality and so incomprehensible that I am her kill helpless. I can walk there very long, without having to take on something interesting. And then I'm suddenly midst of life.
I lack any poetry for the city, outside of their evening light and odor, park benches, gardens and barbecue restaurants. Me strained to the utmost, a two-hour walk through the midday heat under German arouses desire rain, waiting to be satisfied but not - it should remain a premonition that something is still there, behind this juggernaut of exhaust, dust people, rattling Radio Music and suspicious glances. I suffer from temperatures that seem otherwise than comply with my wishes summer, under the mountain air and the conspicuous lack of visitable toilet. My stomach rebelled, I curse my being German, my lack of adaptability, my speechless - and wants to go away but in any case. Welcome back to the bazaar every day, every day enjoy the heat, I squeeze into minibuses and surrender to the city.
By evening, shortly before the sun goes down and comes up a breeze. Then go on a bit and I wonder that all this really happening right now.
And of course I'm in love with the person who shows me everything and can stand that I stumble, curse and suffer. And wait until I understand of course.
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