Else to be said

Who're free to know - where exactly and in which certain look and form is hidden genuine life's meaning, assigning vector of days' going and writing chapters of time's plots, controlling every single sphere and setting frames and laws of world. No one alive will ever dare to give answer, no slightest matter, how much mindful and insightful, he in his personal view is. No one will ever even risk to try to guess. Yes, world around, as not difficult to notice, is, of course, not the finest of places. But we still have to live and strive, to keep believings and attempts and to maintain imputed path from murk of past to fog of future. And all-consuming total wrongness, in spite of any norms of logic, is not each time is cause to fade. The more frustratingly looks threatener's appearance, the more of beautiness and grace has state of horror. The more cold-bloodedly shines light, the more wholeheartedly cling shadows. This is more stiff and undeclinable than law. And, the more evenly and smoothly gets closed circle, the more disturbingly and sharply will in response get taken angle. You cannot break it or erase. Resultless measures, to worst sadness, as not too tricky to predict, aren't trained to lead to fruitful endings. The more colorfulness has bars' net of cage, the more insipid, gray and vain is life of birds. From this it's right to burst with tears. The better quality have doors, the more disgusting are keys' holders. The greater compliments gets smoke, the harsher scoldings gathers fire. And too much easy it's to die or to get nullified and lost. The more significantly late you come on feast, the more surprisingly in time you come on plague. And the more blissful and enjoyable is poison, the more indifferent and tasteless starts at some point to be food. The more lower measure of capacity has bag, the more unbearable is pain from last one's awl. The more unreachable and far are crumbs of feast, the more untamable is need for cake of plague. But this is, perhaps, even good, if to devote more sturdy looking. The more of thinness has your ice, the more of hotness has your flaming. No one can cancel such a fact. And the more random and chaotic is bees' swarming, the more harmonious and neat and last ones' hives. This is more confident than law. The longer term you wait for fire, the shorter burning you receive. Each one who has a fishing rod is quite straightforwardly aware - the greater level of diversity have hooks, the lower level of diversity have fishes. The harder scale of disbelief you have to head, the firmer trust you have to guillotine, it's deathless. This is an axiom, not less. And the more careless and thoughtless is plane's pilot, the stiffer tension have its parachutes and crew. With sterner boldness we spend night, with deeper timidness we look in face of morning. And the more passionless is blooming, the more of vividness and ardor has leaves' fall. With stronger loudness and zeal you are proceeding to deny fact of flame's presence, with quieter silence you're admitting fact of ash. Not each of minds will ever actually cope to realize how much immeasurably true is this regrettable short statement. The more exalted is play's purpose, the more distorted and unsteady are its roles. And the more heartful, kind and merciful is owner, the more insulting, tough and violent is leash. And the more easy it's at here to find appropriate fabric, the more it's difficult to meet with gifted tailor. This is reality of world. Static, obstinate, sticky and fatal. The more serene are notes of evening's lullaby, the more frustrating and disturbing are further sounds of alarming morning clock. The more transparent and explicit is every tiny handful-sized simplification, the more invisible and hidden at same time are overwhelmingly huge heaps of complications. And the more friendly and profuse is rain of goods, the more appalling, wild and rough is price's thunder. But, having failed to come on sowing, you have no reasons to be hastening on harvest. This is main hopelessness, main pain. And not to find such of ideas, that can't be tracellessly erased and turned in absolutest nothing, as if they never were at all. But it's quite possible, who actually knows, that if life has not been oppressing you at start - at distant stage of young weak sprout, you'd maybe never cope to turn in trea you are - equipped with ample graceful crown, free to be easiestly shading all of others and calmly sending each of previous ill-wishers, who were repeatingly resultlessly attempting to cut your barely begun existence off, in hardest agony and terriblest vexation. Of course, cup's maker and creator of the cause of its transforming into splinters are wholly different and rid of likeness persons, but both of them, right as whole world, have been appointed, admitted, born and grown by will and plans of common author. But this is principle of doom: if you've refused from eating cheese, no ones of mousetraps will ever cope to catch you.. But this is not what can bring faithing and console. The more insistently you try to push your life, the more inactively it's going. And the more favorable, loved and praised is penny, the more rejectable is million, it's fact. But if you haven't learned to step, you'll never manage to get used to ladder's stairs. The more dispassionate and cold is headsman's mind, the more hot heart have blade of guillotine, it's constant. But even presence of all sources and full excess of strengths and zeal does not have influence away of link with purpose. If you gain money for a suit, you jump and sing, and if for patches - howl and sadden. And more brisk is route of voyage, the more defenseless, frail and short is life of soles. The more of benefits brings star, the more of panic, grief and garm bring its eclipses. But ones, who've drowned, believe in storm, and ones, who've coped to stay afloat - in strength of boat. Each is produced for something personal, for own. And the more scatterably wide is swarm of bullets, just flown past, the more precise and tight is drop of ones, which into ending still have found way to hit. The more resultless, vain and strange is faith in doors, the more unbeatable is craving for their handles. But, having finally got rid of hateful stick, you, to worst sorrow, either can't preserve past right on so much hotly needful carrot. And the more tragical is brightness of the light, the less of painfulness brings ringing of its shadows. The more of fleetingness has rain, the more of steadiness have puddles. And not too much for to be done. The more exhausted, frail and powerless is whistler, the more of voicelessness has whistle, which he gets. The lower joy you find in fire, the lighter grief you feel from ash. But what you cannot sow in fly will never cope to grow in elephant, it's law. The more of modesty have rules, the more of splendidness has playing. No slightest matter, how much mindlessly it seems. The quicker lasting has life's road, the more long presence has its dust. The more of hiddenness and shyness has gait's pace of, the more of loudness and sharpness has floor's creaking. But this is maybe not so dreary. The more chaotic is traps' swarm, the more majestically smooth are flocks of beasts. The more of randomness has placing of route's potholes, the more of harmony and grace has noise of wheels. But the more bottomlessly deep here is tar's barrel, the more indifferent is chance on honey's spoon. And the more merciless is sawdust, the more essential compassion you start to feel to fate of axe. And so much stupid, not having coped to find a ticket, to be expecting, that you'll easily be able to cling for edging of footplate. But from top and to abyss - it's sad, while from abyss to abyss - just normal. And the more vacant here are guillotine's embraces, the more of weightlessness have heads. But you still have to live, persist and curb, what's given. The more of clumsiness and noise have hooks of hangers, the more of coziness have wardrobes, do not miss. This ill flawed fact is as undying, as perplexing. But over-ripeness of boredom, to worst regrettings, doesn't serve as key from newness. And the more joyful are inhabitants of murk without knowledge of light's nature, the more of helplessness, bemusement, fright and shock falls on their poor puzzled heads, when at one day it still gets suddenly revealed. The more of weightlessness and ease has grip of fortune, the more heaviness and strength has yoke of game. And the more doubtful are earnings, the more undoubted are debts. The more of mutedness has praise, the more of loudness have scoldings. You can't dismiss it, rearrange or throw away. And the more nice is poison's taste, the downtrodden, vain and shrunk is role of food. The more of motleyness have ants, the more of facelessness has anthill. The shorter lasting has laugh's sound, the more long echoing have notes of tears' storm. You can quite tricklessly submit all sorts of minds, but can't curb mindlessness and madness, can't tame insanity and rave. And not to hide, not to escape, not to attain salvating calmness. With smoother rows flotilla sails, the more chaotical disorder it gets drowned. The more approvable is orbit, the more forbidden are attempts to fall in flight. And the more frankly you love honey, the more expectably and promptly life's plots will try to give you tar. But wrongly casted clay cup's hull is still more practical than elegantly painted. You can't find components, which gathering in joy, weren't with same aptness calmly able to get assembled into pain. This is life's givenness, not something odd or stunning. The more indifferent is drinking, the more enjoyable is smashing of dried glass. And the more innocent is bait and shape of hook, the more unprincipled and cruel are plans of fisherman, at here it's just days' fact. The more straightforward and unshakable aim, the more uncertain and usteady is attaining. The more of tears brings fly's pain, the less of tears and regrettings has death of elephant, it's rule. And not to bridle inner sorrows, not to restrain soul's grief and doom. No slightest matter, how much colorful are shoes, with even most exotic palette, they'll never manage to protect from dreary gait. And the more needable is carrot, the less escapable is stick. The more indistinct was your burning, the more amazingly you'll fade. This is in everything, in all. The more of cheerfulness have glasses, the more of lifelessness has wine. The more observable are problems, the more hazed manners they require to be solved. The more impeccable are heights, the more unbearable are foothills. Not too huge difference at all between of costs of head and bullet. But one, who've initially been making these aforementioned our heads was not aware of next guillotine's invention. It's not a tragedy, just fate. And the more uniform is murk, the more unique is gleam of lanterns. And the more strong is world from side, the more fragile and frail it's inly. The more short term has link with hook, the more long term has link with pot of next fish soup. But maybe this is not so sad. The more forgetfully acts prompter, the more enchantingly moves play. The more unprincipled is voyage, the more thin clattering have wheels. The less remarkable was flying, the more breathtaking will be fall. And the more primitive is food, the more exalted is spoon's ringing. With harder heartlessness and hatred you break cup, with hotter fervidness and zeal you dream to cope to drink from splinters. And the more pointless are colors, the more profoundly looks grayness, this is law. And it is so meaningless to try to rush and hurry. The earlier is sowing, the farer are first fruits. And the less passionate this being is to food, the more of interest it shows to plate and table. The meeker temper has nail's soul, the rougher mood has nails' extractor. The more controllable are borders, the less controllable are lands. The more irregular are seeds, the more habitual is sowing. And the more lovely are invitings, the more indifferent and harsh is driving off. The more compassionate is court, the less employed are its headsmen. The more excessively lasts sound, with more short echo it gets stopped. The more of murkiness have roads, the more of light have their dead-ends. But, having eaten main top's cherry, you'll hardly rush to eat rest cake. It'll be already wholly needless. But the more mutual are rules, the lower scale of reciprocity has playing. The more meek whispering have risks, the more stiff shouting have threats. The more of will you have to wave, the more indifferent is tragedy of falling. The better forest gets cut down, the less appropriate gets rescued. The more precisely you know fire, the less informed you are of murk. And the more aptly you remember dishes' taste, the less you're able to recall - with whom exactly you was eating. The more free setting has your goal, the more of forcefulness has search of tools and helpers. And the more lost are any keys, the more assured is door's closeness, it's changeless. The more habitual are goods, the less of interest have coins. And the more hateful is shop's cheese, the more desirable and needful is cheese from mousetrap, it's fact. Not having firstly crafted matches, you'll never able to invent how to extinguish fire's spreading. The more approvable are threats, the more condemnable is fear. No single drop of smallest doubts in timeless deathlessness of this. The less of joy has life of camel, the more of boastfulness have humps. The more of mindlessness has essence of performance, the more of timidness and faithfulness shows actors. The more of shortness have attempts, the more of longness have mistakings. And the more worn is whip of rules, the more fresh carrot offers playing. The more hotly you're indeed beloved by fortune, the more indifferent are swindlers to your declarings of own luck. The more inglorious are weeds, the more high passion you express to roses' breed. The more full-flowing is tar's pouring, the more of tastiness and sweetness honey has. The more of commonness have causes for to breath, the more personified are acts of suffocation. But the more silent is the artist, the self-speaking is his art. It's rather difficult to faith in higher logic, but, after all, just try to let yourself to dare to imagine, that someone had been clearly knowing just before of creation of world, before of forming of first models of star systems, that onto one of last ones planets in one of moments will appear roots of life, that evolution will develop it in humans and slightly later they'll invent first ways to write, that at one day I will be born among of others and will compose these twisted lines, and you will find them and then read. Right here, right now, right at this second of your life and neither earlier nor later. If even any one most short and tiny link of former chain of days' events would be extracted, it would be simply just impossible to happen. One other meeting, other going of acquaintance at any stage of our countlessly endless ancestors, and all around would be different - just all. If plots of world had just one single extra birth or one inoccurred betrayal, murder or deceit, whole current portrait of reality would change. It would be simply just another - without us, without these strange shaky lines and with no consequences from heeding to their essence. What else to choose as source of faith, if not most abysmal all-powerful prescription - in its most utter and indisputable form. Space itself, course of time, state of matter were predetermined and appointed just so, that at some certain distant point someone could throw fleeting look at his small watches and understand, that he's not late. Each of the lives, defeats and winnings, each of achievements and remarks were known and planned long long before of our universe's starting had been launched. We have no single opportunity, no hope to live another, than being's basics had appointed and planned. We even can't make extra breath or additional waving with finger. Any presence of will is a myth. It's maybe greatest of illusions, we can be in. World works according to its script. Script is unchangeable and static. Precise in aptness of foregoing execution and independent from all thinkable of facts. And, as you easily can notice, quite often bottomlessly ruthless and full of violence and pain. But there is something much more sad in this straightforwardly developing plots' progress, in world's improvement and appearing of new - no slightest matter what a form world will acquire at own ending and what degree of bloom, perfection and prosperity it'll get, no one of potentially possible states of full idealism will ever compensate past bitterness of losses, of endless sacrifices, falsehoods, dirts and lyings, of pains, omissions, falls and griefs. Life itself, no weakest difference how wonderful it'll come, will never worth that unimaginably heavy tragic price, that has already been devoted by past eras. World is not field you'll ever want to gather fruits from - so greatly knowing of unjustifiably numerless blood's volume, these ugly fruits are soaked with. I reject life as way of existing. This crippled sick and dead obsession with mix of motleyness and fog, with its unending hellish abyss of temptations, of deceptions, traps, sorrows and risks is with no doubts worst of possible inventions. And that is why from all of afterlife's prolongings I prefer to choose trivial death. Simple tracelessly full disappearing, erasing - out and forever. With no potential next heaven and no of rights on own return. No ones of paradises ever will replace plain priceless charm of banal absence. Without need to wait and try and with no freezing in best moment. The very fact of any presence is huge burden, dark hopeless curse - sized of whole galaxy, we live in, or maybe even slightly more. And even if prescription's shackles will go out and I will suddenly acquire pure opportunity to live with any life, just only choose and then rejoice, I would without shortest thinking and with full firmness in each corner of my will be most bottomlessly happy not to get born and not to have to choose at all.