Centuries Of Being

  • …on Monday morning, yet once again, I lost my hope. I woke up with dozen unanswered questions spinning in my head, like: who am I? Where am I going? And overall, what is the meaning of existence?
  • Mm, – he pretends to listen, I can bet he turned off straight after yet once again.
  • Being from nine to five is not what I call life. You check the clock in the evening and say to your-self: it’s getting late, I better go to bed. You pull on the night cap, put the ear-plugs in, slip on a purple Sleeping Beauty eye mask, you wake up at six, after three snoozes you drag yourself to a shower, you run to metro, you squeeze your-self into a carriage, four stops you breath in the odour of someone’s armpit, someone sort of on purpose, sort of not – touches your butt, someone sneezes right into your face, you work eight hours with a half an hour lunch break, which you allowed to take at certain hours, then you rush home and the same story begins: someone breaths in the odour of your armpit, sort of on purpose, sort of not you touch someone’s butt, you sneeze right into someone’s face. You come back home deadly tired, throw in a frozen pica into a pre-heated oven, turn a movie on and fall asleep in a middle of a third slice. And then, weekend comes and you have so many plans it would take a lifetime to accomplish, so you start drinking straight after work, on Friday, clean the house early in the morning, on Saturday, after that you head straight to a shopping mall and spend spend spend, in the evening you drop into bed/ coma, on Sunday you raise from the dead, and whiles having a Sunday Roast you cannot help but dread tomorrow and that you’ll need to get back to work.
  • I am tired of walking. Could we sit down somewhere? – He offers.
  • Where? – I stop for a breath moment.
  • Bench is fine, I can neither drink nor eat until the sunset, – He declares in a rather monotonous voice and heads towards a lonely bench.
  • You fast and then stuff your-self like a teenage girl with an eating disorder. What’s the point?
  • Ramadan is a form of sympathising with the poor; fasting turns the habit of eating into a conscious process.
  • Why always strive for extremes? Wouldn’t that be easier to consume less each day? Why do people consume so much? And why do we have to pay for everything? What is money?! – I bombard him with questions as if all unfairness of the planet earth would be his fault.
  • Are you about to change something or are all these questions a mere waste of time? – He asks ending the charade; his voice is calming, eyes resting on the horizon, he looks like Allah him-self.
  • What’s with all the tranquillity? Saving energy resources, so you don’t collapse on your way back home? – I tease him childishly.
  • I often find my-self dwelling on the same kind of questions, asking my-self what’s it all about and what else is there to come? And then the routine drags me back again, I put together a list of more or less meaningless targets, then I reach them and plan again. Islam teaches to be kind, live so you do not stand in others’ way. Maybe this is it? Maybe the whole meaning lies just there, in compassion and empathy, in assurance, that everyone you meet remembers you as a kind and giving person?
  • Yes, OK, but then what’s next?

  • What do you mean?
  • Let’s presume we have more or less fifty beautiful years to enjoy here, where to invest all this time? I am running out of ideas. Should I focus on a career? Should I give birth and raise a well-rounded kids? Do not get me wrong, I do enjoy living, but I wouldn’t like to just kill time. It doesn’t matter the way you look at it, but career and family is the easy way out. The same thing with education, in a way it lets one off from thinking about broader meaning.
  • Is that’s why you graduated Masters? – My sarcasm gets back at me like a boomerang of karma, – when you are happy and you enjoy what you’re doing, do you bother your-self with these sort of questions?
  • I know what you’re training to say, but this is not one of those many cases, when I grow bored of what I’m doing. In contrast, now everything is (more or less) easy.
  • Then, maybe all these questions rise from the state of idle?
  • So the rest of the nation, who are not bothered by similar questions suffers from low living standards? I think, that unfortunate people are indeed the ones who question things, the most common question they ask is why? And then, they add: God, oh, why?
  • Oh dear, so maybe, you too, should create your-self a target?
  • Ah… – I exhale because we managed to turn the conversation about existence into one boring never ending routine; for the past thirty minutes we have been running around in circles, later we will grab a bite and go to sleep, – we are so primitive!
  • Have you ever considered to become Muslim?
  • Are you serious?
  • At least try fasting, thoughts are lighter on an empty stomach, maybe you would come up with something?
  • Sun is down, – I note breathily, so he shuts his mouth up with a Mexican burrito or something and allows me to finish my thesis on being, because I’m only in the middle of the first page.
  • Today was a beautiful day, wasn’t it?
  • It was, – I agree indifferently, yet another day, I would think he is high on drugs, if it wasn’t Ramadan.
  • Life will be over in a blink of an eye/…
  • /… did you read through some sort of cliché phrase book on the way to meet me?
  • The one you’ve written?
  • Willy, – I state.
  • Questioning things is good, some people live in ignorance and wakes up right before the end (if ever). And the saying: it’s never too late, does not apply here.
  • I still have no idea what the fuck I should do with my life. It would be a terrible shame to look back one day and sigh: yet another life. Because I have a feeling this may be the last.
  • From the nine given?
  • Imagine, during all these centuries of being I did not grasp the essence..
  • Would you like to light some bonfires?
  • But this isn’t the end…
  • Allah won’t mind.



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"Lengva būtų visa tai pavadinti literatūriniu nudizmu, jei Marijos Djačenko kūryboje nebudėtų skaudus jautrumas tiems, kuriems atrodo, jog savo egzistenciją įmanoma pabrėžti ir susinaikinimu." - ROBERTAS KETURAKIS “It would be easy to call Marija Djačenko’s oeuvre literary nudism, if not the painful sensitivity to those who feel that their existence may be stressed by self destruction.” – ROBERTAS KETURAKIS