tl7-fn6jptqЯ студентка Казанского Университета, учусь на факультете "лингвистика". Люблю изучать иностранные языки, в особенности мне нравится английский язык. В будущем мечтаю связать свою профессию с языками. Люблю путешествовать и общаться с новыми людьми, знакомиться с их традициями. I am a student of Kazan University, study in the "Linguistics" faculty. I have a fancy for learning foreign languages; especially I am fond of learning English. In the future I dream to link my profession with languages. I like to travel and communicate with new people, learn about their traditions.  

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Flight in a dream or is for real


Sometimes it is hard to distinguish dream from reality. I dreamed that I was flying with beautiful butterflies. The glade with fabulously beautiful plants was our runway. It was something like flight of the soul. Later I often had such dreams, however the feeling was not like before, probably, I had known what a fall was. In the morning, being in full confidence that it would be possible to repeat my night flight, I spread and waved my slender hands, and, having had time to take a horizontal position, I was subject to laws of terrestrial gravitation. To tell about the physical pain, it means nothing to say. However the truth that I had opened was more painful: flight has nothing to do with reality. Troublemaker would not a troublemaker, if one day after learning the truth, calmed down. I would like to float in the air again, though not with beautiful butterflies, even I was agreed to fly with despicable flies and mosquitoes. It was difficult time for small domestic fowl such as chickens, geese, and ducks.  Every liked feather turned out immediately in my basket. I had been collecting it for about a month. Cut out the shape in advance, I glued feathers on cardboard paper with shoe glue. In appearance my aircraft turned out quite decent, wingspan reached approximately one meter. For my height a little more than a meter, it was enough. In order not to be dishonored in case of failure, my first flight I decided to perform without an audience. I thought six in the morning would be the best time, because usually in summer children did not get up so early, what could not be said of the ubiquitous rural Nutsa Gossip Girl. I knew that I can hardly get off the ground with the help of wings and decided to make their task even easier. Instead of taking fly, I decided to fly off the low cliff. Fortunately at the bottom there was dry crumbly yellow clay, it was my insurance. Climbing up the cliff, like mountain eagle I proudly looked over vicinities, and waving meter long wings, flew down. By mischance Nutsa drove cattle to graze. She did not expect to see falling or flying angel so early. Nerves were short; she prostrated herself and could not to her feet. In order to avoid a scandal, I hid in the bushes. Soon rumors about flying angel began to ooze through the village. As usual in such cases in the mountain villages the whole village decided to pay homage to the angel flies in transit. They slaughtered the sacrificial ram and made a feast. I cannot say I have found enjoyment in the flight, but I was bursting with pride from the fact that the whole village, from young to old, gave recognition to me and compensated for the pain of bruises obtained by not entirely soft landing. Experiments on the exploration of the airspace of course did not end. If I had read the story about Daedalus and Icarus a little bit earlier, even this hardly would have changed something. Every person is learning in life probably only on his own experience and mistakes. When I realized that it was impossible to fly up on the wings, I decided to fly in self-produced balloon. It took me two years to gain desired amount of skins of various animals. My obsession with the idea was passed all the kids, but not only them. More than that, my grand uncle, who was ninety-odd years, helped me. His name was Sidan, it was as old as his bright appearance. The oblong skull was framed by shoulder-length white hair; well-groomed reddish beard and the same mustache were a continuation. The narrow shape of the eyes gave his face a specific expression. When grandfather was talking, there was always doubt whether the he told the truth or joking. However when he started talking about the brave heroes of the past or about the noble abreks, we ourselves became participants of the battle, fighters for justice. My grandfather had a strange quirk: to relocate every year. With the beginning of spring he bore a collapsible house to a new location, but the floor was always dirt. In order to maintain his good health, once a week he cut lamb or kid. He believed that their meat was healing. However, the skins moved into my property only in exchange for a pack of strong cigarettes. A simple meal he washed down with red wine, which insisted necessarily in an earthenware amphora and was buried into the ground. He was very supportive of me and my opponent Mali, his own grandson. An autopsy of amphora necessarily was accompanied by ritual: besides the grandfather someone else had to taste the wine. This "someone" turned out to be Mali and me. I can say definitely that I have never tasted something like that. It was the taste of the earth and the sun, the taste of life. It needs no saying that a clay cup has not quenched our thirst. Our eyes met, and we wordlessly understood each intention. At the evening gathering of kids was taken a verdict of injustice, which grandfather committed, sipping his magic nectar alone. Waiting for until grandfather would turn off the electricity in his house, we crept silently to the place where the amphora with a precious drink had been buried. The next morning the little meadow resembled a battlefield. "Battlefield" was covered with child's bodies, and the distance between them was "decorated" with colored red wine vomiting. The sight was disgusting. The consequences wasted little time. My faithful friend Mali came to himself the first. Sympathetically he lent me hand and helped to stand. Waking up and picking the rest, with a totter started wandering towards the village. The way of our feels was something like that in the mouth a flock of well-fed geese spent the night, bones ached, like the pain my grandmother had before approximation of strong thunderstorms. It would be foolish to assume that the alcohol withdrawal syndrome was the only trouble. We were walking to the village, like a lamb to the slaughter; every one of us knew what awaited him at home. It is no use to say about the others, but as for me I could not sit on the soft spot for a week, this was my father`s educational procedure. I still retain a dislike to one corner of our huge garden: there were willow and twigs which were very painful, I can tell it based on galling experience; they, as ill luck would have it, do not break, but lean over. But troubles did not stop. Due to the small pranks grandfather temporarily stopped issuing the skins, and the process of realization of my dreams into reality slowed. But it is for the birds to give up because of little problems, which can destroy the big dream. After about two weeks, when all old wounds have healed and our leprosy had almost forgotten, I have collected "bribe" to the grandfather. It consisted of a carton of cigarettes and a box of chocolates. My grandfather Sidan was an undercover sweet tooth. Considering that candy was not for he-man, he was ashamed of his failing. It was known by little, including me. The box was given me by grandmother in order to alleviate pain of the birch, but I did not open it, because I knew that it would do me a good turn. And, indeed, a box of chocolates opened the heart of the old good man whom I had so rashly offended. My joy was enormous: I was happy not only because hides, which he kept before the reconciliation, but also because having communication with him, I really liked the stories about the "old" times. Очень плохоПлохоУдовлетворительноХорошоОтлично (5 голосов, средний бал: 4,80 из 5)