Story 3. Pre-dawn Silence

It so happened that dreams have always been an important part of my life. The reality of a dream seems to me no less important and real than the one we immerse ourselves in upon waking. Events that happen there always find reflection in my waking state. And to be perfectly honest, I personally wouldn't be able to draw a clear line between the two. These two realities – of sleep and of waking – flow smoothly into one another. Sometimes intertwining whimsically, sometimes seeming to superimpose on each other. And it was like that from early childhood. My parents were very surprised and sometimes even worried when they looked at me. I was a very calm and self-absorbed child. I was never bored. While other children were happily playing in the yard, interacting with each other or constantly tugging at the adults, I could calmly sit at home and look out the window.
 
A ray of sunlight falling on the rug, or sunbeams tangled in Mum's crystal in the sideboard, could hold my attention for a long time. And then I would seem to sink into a strange but very pleasant stupor, in which everything was perfectly clear, yet at the same time began to look different than it had before. Behind the familiar picture of the surrounding world, I could glimpse other worlds and catch the sensations corresponding to them. This filled my inner life, although outwardly it might not show at all. This is what frightened my parents. They would start to shake me out of it and, for the sake of my health, shoo me outside to play. But outside, I felt just as good as at home. I wasn't a sociable child, although I didn't avoid the company of other children. Still, I was better off alone. For example, in winter, I might happily go sledding with a noisy group of other children, and then stay lying in a snowdrift nearby for a long time, gazing at the starry sky or at the treetops. When I came to, it might well turn out that everyone had gone home and only I was still "playing in the yard". What it was – a withdrawal into myself or, conversely, a dissolution into the external world – I don't know. But I loved these states very much, and even now I rejoice whenever I manage to catch even a faint glimmer of them.
 
Actually, why am I telling you all this? Because for me, even the most seemingly insignificant events of external life could have deep inner significance. And it's about one such, for me significant, insignificant episode that I'd like to tell you now.
 
I called this chapter "Pre-dawn Silence". And here's why. One childhood memory has been coming back to me very insistently lately – summer, early morning, I think no later than four or five in the morning. A faint, bluish pre-dawn light filters through the tightly drawn curtains. Quiet. Everyone is still asleep. No sounds are heard, neither in the house nor outside. I lie there, listening to this silence. Gradually, I begin to distinguish the ticking of the clock, my sister's soft breathing in her sleep, my parents' rhythmic breathing, the faint chirping of birds outside. All the sounds seem tinted bluish. This fills me with a state of peace and, I would even say, grace. At such moments, it seems that everything in the world is in its place. And the world itself is an amazing and boundless place, where everything is in perfect order, everything is subject to a single, kind, and correct design, and everything that ever was, is, and will be – is created for universal happiness and joy. This is my very clumsy, approximate attempt to describe that state of understanding I had then.
 
And then I hear the first sound – the sound of the engine of the first bus passing under the windows. It doesn't disrupt the harmony or the silence. It is part of it. In a world where everything is in order, a new day is beginning – this is what the first bus announces. It travels through the sleeping city. It itself is still asleep and dreaming. Dreams of little ones sleeping in their cots. Dreams of their parents, tired from the previous day, but joyful. Dreams of the elderly, dozing lightly at dawn, and of the youth, full of life and fun. Dreams of weekdays filled with creative work and of quiet evenings with the family. Of love, inspiration, and daring.
 
This is how the new day begins. This is how I feel. The sound of the bus engine gradually recedes, fading into the pre-dawn mist. I drift away after it, falling asleep. Let the new day begin as a mystery, without the interference of anyone's attention. The sleepy little bus will wake up on its own and wake the city. The city will shine in the rays of the rising sun and fill its awakening inhabitants with joyful anticipation and the promise of happiness. And I'll sleep a little longer.