Ирина Одарчук Паули Восприятие перевод на английск

Prologue
What is your perception of man? Are you ready to see works of art? Your assessment may be formed from this. Are you always right in your assessment? The first perception may be deceptive. Do not rush to make certain conclusions.

Chapter 1
The structure of the brain is the same for every person, but its development is different for everyone. Is your brain healthy? Stress affects the state of the brain. It also affects perception. Difficulties affect the quality of life. A calm environment helps a person relax and perceive more.

Chapter 2
If you constantly draw a black square, you can go crazy. Okay, but how can you draw a white square? If you make an outline with a simple pencil, it will be black. Perception also depends on the mood. If you consider this author a mediocrity, then nothing will change in your eyes from this, you will see only insignificance in his masterpieces.

Chapter 3
"See the white dot and focus on it. This is your path to perception." Many are simply not given to see it at all. My painting consists of red, blue and white squares. Because there was a black square and that was enough. The red square is fire, the blue square is the sky, the white square is clouds.

Chapter 4
And we will add a green square - a meadow, a forest. But this is not all in its pure form, since flowers grow in a meadow, and a forest does not consist of trees alone. And what does art consist of? There will be philosophy, psychology and relationships between the characters. Depends on the themes. Depends on the feelings of the creator, on the love of art.

Chapter 5
Perception depends on everything. Did the person get enough sleep? Does his head hurt and his blood pressure jump. Draw a circle immediately. Put check marks in it and mark them somehow. Did you catch any idea. Or snorted, but why, why, etc.

Chapter 6
Imagination helps a lot. Fantasies are also good. Dream more, even if you never have it, but it is worth striving for dreams. And the best thing is to make dreams come true.

Chapter 7
A tape of life and emotions. Constant movement. "A person may think that he is moving forward, but these are just illusions." Always choose more than you "can convey." Then there is something to strive for.
Chapter 8
-Where are you going?
-Why do you need to know?
-Maybe you should take me with you.
-No, one is better.
-Are we not on the same path?
-We have different approaches to everything.

Chapter 9
The whole garden is dug up by moles again. Nothing helps. "You need to make more noise. Otherwise you can't hear." People are deaf, although they hear perfectly well.

Chapter 10
"The wind drives the waves. A person needs to drive away fears." Straighten the spokes of the wheel. And who can straighten the soul, only the person himself.

Chapter 11
-I'll go and have a look.
-Something is wrong.
-There is a hole in the fence.
-And who did it?

Chapter 12
Labor is incomparable. It is worth developing the mind and nourishing the intellect. And progress does not stand still. Technologies are off the charts, but this is not the limit.

Chapter 13
A year ago this was not the case. If you develop yourself, then your soul develops, it becomes richer. "Stupidity is knocked out, it can no longer be presented with a bill."

Chapter 14
-We'll have dinner now.
-Can I have this piece of meat?
I want to say that you need to pamper yourself, then your perception will change. You need to treat everything qualitatively.

Chapter 15
Butterfly, why haven't you spread your wings? But the sage won't tell her that. "Why did you choose this particular flower? When I flew in, I saw it and then sat down."

Chapter 16
What is your kaleidoscope of thoughts? Are they jumping or flowing? Maybe they resemble the colors of the rainbow. "Out of sync. Colors are lost."

Chapter 17
You won't be able to perceive everything. It takes time. "No one will pour your cup. It fills gradually." The brain receives signals, both positive and negative. It is better to focus positively.

Chapter 18
-Killed.
-Whom?
-A fly.
-What a creature.
-She is not human.
-You should sit down then.

Chapter 19
We don't know how long someone will live. God is not given to tell us this. Live in peace. "Peace is the light in the window. Although cats can scratch at the soul." Take the first as it is. Don't dwell on problems. But don't expect everything to resolve itself.

Chapter 20
"I was flying as a butterfly in my dream, but someone singed my wings, but I still flew towards the light." "To be in all white. So that no one could hurt you. Then you'll have to wash away the drops of blood." A doctor is needed.

Chapter 21
"There were drops of blood on the flower, and in the fall they turned rusty." Snow covered these flowers. They are already asleep. No one disturbs them.

Chapter 22
Disturb yourself. Force yourself to awaken feelings. Love is like a sweet berry. "But don't try to eat it. You need it."

Chapter 23
Shadows of the past follow us like invisible threads. They whisper, remind, but do not always provide answers. “Why hold on to what has already turned to dust?” a wise man once asked. But even he could not explain why some wounds glow in the dark, like stars.
Perception is not only what is before your eyes. It is also what remains deep inside, like echoes of distant thunder. Sometimes it seems that you understand everything, but you only have to close your eyes - and the world crumbles into millions of particles, each of which requires its own understanding.
"Do you hear?" asked a voice from the darkness.
“I hear,” she answered without opening her eyes.
- Then why don't you answer?
- Because some questions don't require answers.
The art of living is the art of being silent at the right moment. But how do you know when the right moment is? Perhaps the answer lies in that white square you never managed to draw.

Chapter 24
The morning began with silence. Not the kind that envelops, but the kind that cuts like a blade. “I had a dream today,” she thought. “But was it a dream?” Sometimes the boundaries between reality and fiction blur, and then there’s only one thing left to do: trust your perception.
“What are you doing?” he asked, watching her draw circles in the sand.
“I’m looking for the center,” she answered.
- Why?
- To understand where I am.
But the center is an illusion. Like the black square that once seemed the end of everything. Now she knew: art is infinity, and perception is just an attempt to grasp its edge.

Chapter 25
Silence is not the absence of sound, but its special form. It can be heavy as lead or light as the whisper of leaves. It fills the room, penetrates the cracks between thoughts, and then it seems that even time slows down.
“You’re silent again,” he said, looking at her profile.
“I’m listening,” she answered, without taking her eyes off the window.
- But I don't say anything.
- That's exactly why.
Snow was falling outside. White flakes swirled in the air, as if trying to form a pattern, but the wind tore apart their dancing harmony. Perception is a choice, she thought. You can see chaos, or you can see an unfinished symphony.

Chapter 26
“Draw me something,” he asked, handing her a pencil.
- What exactly?
- Something that does not exist.
She paused for a moment, then drew a line. Then another. The paper gradually filled with abstract shapes—not squares, not circles, but something elusive that straddled the line between reality and fantasy.
“What is this?” he asked, leaning closer.
“An answer, perhaps,” she smiled. “Or a question.”

Chapter 27
The night brought dreams. In them, she flew over the city, but instead of wings, she had pages from books. They rustled in the wind, and each carried fragments of phrases: "you won't see," "if you don't believe," "the light inside."
When she woke up, she tried to put the words together into a sentence, but they fell apart like sand through her fingers. Maybe the meaning isn't in the words, but in the spaces between them, she thought.
The morning began with coffee and the quiet buzzing of a fly, which was beating against the glass. She went to the window, opened it slightly - and the insect broke free.
“Why?” he asked, watching this.
— Because sometimes even a fly deserves a second chance.

Chapter 28
The rain pounded the roof as if it wanted to convey a message. She closed her eyes, trying to decipher its rhythm. The drops merged into a melody that reminded her of her childhood: the smell of wet asphalt, puddles that reflected the sky, and her mother's umbrella, under which she could hide from the whole world.
“What are you thinking about?” he interrupted her memories.
“That rain is also an art,” she replied.
- But it quickly disappears.
- Like everything real.

Chapter 29
They sat by the fire, the flames casting shadows on their faces. The fire was an unreliable narrator, sometimes bright, sometimes almost invisible, but its warmth united them in this moment.
“Do you know why people like to look at fire?” she asked.
“Because he’s alive,” he suggested.
- Because you can see in it something that you can’t see anywhere else.
The coals crackled, sending sparks into the night that died before they reached the ground. “Like our thoughts,” she thought. “In a moment, they’re gone.”

Chapter 30
The wind carried the smell of rain, though the clouds were just swirling on the horizon. She stood on the bridge, watching the river carry the reflection of the sky, sometimes blue, sometimes gray, depending on the whims of the light.
“Do you believe that water remembers?” she asked without turning around.
- Remembers what? - He leaned against the railing nearby.
- Everything. Every stone, every fish, every glance that was thrown at her.
Below, a ripple ran through the water, distorting the mirror-like surface. For a moment, she thought she saw a face in the depths—but it was only a mirage, a play of shadows and light.

Chapter 31
The room smelled of old paper and dust. She was sorting through a box of books she hadn't opened in years. Between the pages of one of them was a dried flower - tiny, almost transparent.
“What is this?” He took the fragile petal in his palm.
"A fragment of the past," she replied. "It was once part of something living."
She held the flower up to the light, and veins showed through, like a map of a forgotten land. How many more of these fragments are hidden in the world? she thought.

Chapter 32
“Dreams are letters we write to ourselves,” she said in the morning, pouring tea.
“And if you don’t understand them?” He broke the bread in half.
- So the address is written incorrectly.
An old woman passed by with a basket full of apples. One fell to the pavement with a dull thud. She watched as the stream picked it up and carried it away. Perhaps dreams are like those apples, she thought. Some we catch, others we lose forever.

Chapter 33
The museum was empty at that hour. They stood in front of a painting where the silhouette of a bird could be discerned among the abstract brushstrokes.
“What is depicted here?” he frowned.
“What you are ready to see,” she replied.
In the corner of the canvas, the artist had left a tiny red dot. She ran her finger along the glass covering the painting. Sometimes you can fit a whole world into a single stroke, she thought.

Chapter 34
She was awakened at night by a sound - as if someone was dropping coins on the floor. She went out onto the balcony and saw a cat jumping on the roof, and a string of silvery footprints stretched behind him.
“The moon has melted,” she whispered.
A siren wailed somewhere in the distance, and the cat disappeared into the darkness. Only traces remained - small pools of light that evaporated by morning.

Chapter 35
They were sitting in the park on a bench that someone had written on it with the words: “V. was here.”
"Who do you think this is?" he pointed at the graffiti.
“Perhaps the one who wanted to leave a trace,” she broke off a branch of lilac.
Bees buzzed around the bushes, and ants moved in the grass. “We all leave traces,” she thought, “some with words, others with silence.”

Chapter 36 (Final)
The rain began suddenly, large drops pattering on the roof like hurried messengers from another world. She stood in the middle of the room, holding an old notebook with tattered pages. On the last sheet was written only one word: "Look."
"What do you see?" he asked, entering the room with two steaming cups of tea.
She looked up from her notebook and out the window, where raindrops were making strange patterns on the glass.
“Everything,” she answered simply. “And nothing. At the same time.”
He put the cups down on the table and came closer. His eyes reflected the same questions as many years ago, when they first met at the exhibition of black squares.
— Did you find what you were looking for?
She closed the notebook and ran her hand over its worn cover.
— I realized that there is no need to search. It is enough to see.
Outside the window the rain began to subside, and a ray of sunshine broke through the clouds. It fell on the table where the notebook lay, and illuminated that very word - "Look".

Epilogue
Years later, a new installation appeared in the same gallery where the black squares had once been exhibited. In the center of the white room stood a glass display case with an open notebook. On the page was that very word. Visitors lingered for a long time at the exhibit, each seeing something of their own in it.
One evening, when the gallery was already closing, a girl of about seven remained standing by the display case. She pressed her palms to the glass and suddenly smiled.
“What do you see?” her mother asked.
“That’s it,” the girl answered. “The whole world is drawn here.”
Snow was falling outside the gallery window, white flakes swirling in the lantern light, repeating the dance that another pair of eyes had once seen. But that didn't matter anymore. All that mattered was that someone had seen it again.