Сардор Газиев

%d1%84%d0%be%d1%82%d0%be-%d0%b3%d0%b0%d0%b7%d0%b8%d0%b5%d0%b2-%d1%81Сардор Газиев

Я по образованию – режиссер, но всегда увлекался литературой. Люблю создавать миры и осуществляю их постановку на сцене. На самом деле, иногда кажется что я переводчик. Перевожу мысли в слова – созданием истории, слова перевожу в действия – постановками на сцене, а увиденное и прочтенное в моих произведениях, перевожу в идеи у аудитории. Тема любви и взаимоотношений занимает первое место в моем творчестве. Так же люблю путешествовать, и в этом произведении постарался соединить это в одно. Так появился этот рассказ из серии “Путеводитель для влюбленных”

I am the education – the director, but always interested in literature. I like to create worlds and realize their staging. Actually sometimes it seems that I am a translator. I translate thoughts into words – creating stories, words translate into action – staging on the scene, what have been seen and read in my works, I translate the ideas in the audiences mind. The theme of love and relationships takes the first place in my creative work. Also I like to travel, and in this work I have tried to put them into one. Thus was born this story from the series “Travel Guide for lovers”

Короткий рассказ. Проза “My imaginary journey to London


We said goodbye to each other without saying goodbye.

You left.

And then you flew away.

To London.

London. It’s one of the most wonderful places, which became a source of pain for me. The pain, which I suffer from. It is a disease of pain. Continuous, indefatigable, incurable, long pain.

I stood on the balcony and wondered, which plane you’re flying away in. There was no desire to make something happen, and any prayer for somebody to make it happen. Helplessness gave rise to inaction and unwillingness to act, to move. Since that day, this balcony, this house and this sky with airplanes became unpleasant and unacceptable for me. I did not want to accept that aircrafts are still flying, that I’m still here and still live. If only you knew how hard it is to go out of the house and decide which way to turn. The way to the left is to work, the way to the right – to the airport. Sometimes I persuaded myself that the way to the airport does not exist, or it is just closed.

I missed you. I was angry with you, then with myself. Then with the aircraft and with this city because it was not London.

Our situation is trivial regardless how many times I told myself that it is different. Someone left, and someone suffers. It is like when you left summer camps when you were 14. They wrote letters, drew hearts on the steamed mirror, listened to sad songs.

I saw the sky of London in my dream,

It had a long kiss …

Once I didn’t like this song because of a lack of dynamism and music. Now it is spinning in my head, and I understand why there is no music in it. There is only a dream, an imaginary journey to London, the dream about us.

I knew that you would not write. I knew that you would not answer. Nevertheless I always checked my mail, all messengers and social networks. I typed your name in the search engine looking for news. But there was nothing. There were no even the things which would have been before. There was only one thing left – to watch new photos of London in the network and try to see you in the crowd. It is home to about 8.5 million people and there are almost as many tourists, and to see you among these tourists in random photos is more than impossible. Previously, my knowledge of this city was limited to the ‘London is the capital of Great Britain’ school sentence, but now I watch Londoners posts in the  Instagram, listen to striking of the Big Ben on Twitter, I know all important events. I watch weather forecast every day. It’s 5 degrees and it’s drizzling today. I want to walk with you in the rain and kiss you on a bridge. What is the taste of the rain? And the taste of your kiss?

It is always hard to those who is left. They have many reasons to remember the one who left for new places. But the one who left might also feel bad. I feel lonely among thousands of friends, where one million points are connected to you and you are alone. You are on your own in a foggy city where the story happened, and no matter how much I could shout, you would not hear me. Perhaps looking at the Thames from the London Bridge, you would look for some signs, but maybe not. You might want to talk to me in your thoughts or you might try to drown my voice in your mind.

I look at the photographs of Londoners on the background of old buildings and mentally put you onto these photographs. Here you are at St. Paul’s Cathedral built in the eighteenth century. This Cathedral is the fifth built on this site. It’s one of the symbols of modern London and a great sample of the English Baroque built at the highest point of the city. You’re looking at the tower, the high dome of the cathedral, listening to the ringing of the seventeen bells. In your eyes I can see the joy of contemplation and an attempt to capture the beauty of the building in order not to forget it. The broad, like a skirt maroon trousers are visible from under the raincoat. You don’t like umbrellas, but you’re willingly hiding in the hood. I touch you as if you’re a butterfly on my eyelashes. I shouldn’t scare you. It is absolutely vital for me to keep you in your imagination. In my world. In the world of my dreams. In the world of my fantasy. You are like the Queen Mab from the fairy tales of ancient England – the lady of fairies and elves, you play with lovers’ dream.

Here we go down the Fleet Street – the center of the publishing industry of London for more than three centuries. The offices of publishing houses go in turn with pubs – a place where you can meet people, where you can eat and drink. We enter the Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese with a circle sign. It is a real museum which was visited by Charles Dickens, Arthur Conan Doyle and many other celebrities. You go to a free table and I’m going to the bar, where the barman serves everyone according to a fair queue the logic of which is understood only by him. Having grabbed our glasses of ale I sit down in front of you. You point at the fireplace in the middle of the hall and at the portrait of the first waiter of this pub. We smile, reminding each other about the historicity of every place in this city. There are many tourists and there are as many locals in the place. Though the word “local” for London lost its original meaning long time ago. The city is friendly to all races and nations.

It’s already warm in my city and our summer terraces with a clear view on the streets full of interesting faces are open. Sometimes I sit in one of such places and visualise you. Here is a girl with the hair of the same length, but a different color. And this girl has the same colour nails as yours. I remember you by such small things and details. Even what is not associated with you reminds me of you because it is not associated with you

I desperately want to see you.

You took off a hood. Your hair which became curly because of humidity, gives you a homey look. I feel so comfortable close to you in this aristocratic city. Then, looking at other remarkable sites and holding hands, we walk to the Blackfriars underground station. It is the world’s first underground, constructed in 1863, with intricate ways of eleven lines, stretching for over 400 km. The stations look like museums or exhibition halls. Having lost the way for several times, we finally reach the centre of London where the Eleanor Cross and the Charing Cross meet. We are in the centre of the city and you’re in the centre of my universe….

We walk on.

I think about you and recall a lot of songs, music, literature, characters, authors, images, colours, smells and lots of other things. As if I recall and perceive the world through you. As if my connection with this world is only through you. Even the events that happened before you are connected with you. And after you is only you. It’s like everything new opens with you. As if I can understand love, discover tenderness and happiness only with you. I feel as if I was an astronaut, who had lost consciousness because of lack of oxygen beyond the earth orbit. I’m in a free flight in the unlimited space, and only one thread connects me with the space shuttle. I wish I could hold on, recover, and enter the world again, tightly holding this thread, and you.

We wandered around the city for a long time. It is imaginary you and pictures in the Google Image before my eyes. There are bridges, churches, great historical buildings and new architectural masterpieces. The photographs of celebrities of all ages, people who have launched the new, people who now live there in the search for their new. We pass the bridges, squares, cobbled streets and come into the green ring created after the Great Smog. It is green and fresh here. It’s beautiful. You can easily breathe. The city which looks like a museum where history is preserved and is close to the present is behind us. The history is behind us, and a life in all colors is in front of us. London is probably the best place to save all our love and move on.


We were flying and not holding

Who of us will fall first?

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