Вчора рятувальники в Одесі деблокували тіла мами з тримісячною дитиною. На той момент вже семеро осіб загинуло внаслідок нічного російського удару по багатоповерхівці.

Сьогодні з-під завалів дістали ще два тіла.

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The pain envelops me in a maddening embrace, a severe headache unlike any I've ever experienced. It encircles my head like a relentless hula hoop of suffering, squeezing until there's nothing left. I'm sprawled on an ancient couch, too soft to offer solace, too small to grant respite for my legs. How did I end up here? In this wretched hotel room with walls so thin, I can hear my neighbor's every blink. It's a forsaken establishment in the heart of nowhere, populated by worthless scoundrels much like myself.

I massage my temples and reluctantly open my eyes. A solitary bulb dangles from the ceiling, casting a feeble glow reminiscent of a hangman's noose. It provides enough light to navigate the room without stumbling but fails to ward off the skittering cockroaches beneath my feet. The window remains ajar, welcoming in the frigid winter air. I'm overcome with anguish, too paralyzed to shut out the cold or summon the strength to move.

During a migraine attack, desperation drives you to assume any position that might alleviate the agony. Even if it means sinking to your knees and beseeching an invisible, wrathful deity lurking in the heavens above. You make solemn vows to renounce your vices—drinking, self-indulgence, and all other sins that led you to this moment of torment.

Suddenly, the phone pierced the air with his once-favorite Billy Idol song, a tune he now detested, filling the room.

"What the hell do you want?" I snapped irritably, not bothering to check the caller ID. Only three people had my number - my ex, my psychiatrist, and Randy Stewart, the principal of Black Rock City School, who also happened to be an old friend. Given that I hadn't scheduled a therapy session and Randy was known for retiring to bed by 9 p.m. for the past three years, the caller's identity seemed obvious.

"Well, it's not like you didn't call me seven times yesterday. So, how about a little respect, Peter?" she retorted, irritation evident in her voice.

Насправді, до початку війни, в мене були «нормальні» стосунки з росіянами. Я навіть був двічі в Самарі, бо там живуть мої родичі по материнській лінії. І навіть мав там швидкоплинні стосунки з дівчиною, імʼя якої вже і не памʼятаю.

Родичі мої з Казахстану, але переїхали туди з якоїсь причини. І цей пост, насправді, зовсім не про політику, а радше про «побутову» лінгвістику.

Мені неодноразово доводили, що української не існує, що вона штучна і скоріше походить від російської. З цим я, безумовно, погодитися не можу.

Очевидно, російську я розумію. І не просто розумію, а знаю її краще за більшість росіян (на жаль). Через те, що я колись давно навчався в останньому російськомовному класі в своїй школі.

Я також розумію білоруську мову, однаково на слух та письмово. Хоч і послуговуватися нею не можу. З огляду на те, що коефіцієнт лексичної подібності між нашими мовами найвищий. Що значить, що в нас найбільша кількість спільної лексики, та найбільша кількість спільних граматичних та фонетичних рис.

Російська йде аж після польської та словацької.

А чи розуміють росіяни українську чи білоруську? Варто зазначити, що питання скоріше про письмову мову (яку зрозуміти легше).

А я не так легко відпускаю людей, на жаль.
Вони у памʼяті моїй залишаються навіки.
Гніздяться там, наче перелітні птахи
З перебитим крилом, до якого не знайдуть ліки.

Усі моя завершеність та самостійність
Помножена на відсутність тебе.
А кожен ранок починається з жалю,
Що неситими котами душу шкребе.

Годинник невблаганно відбиває опівночі.
Абсурдність буття прогнозує швидкий кінець.
Усе, що мало значення вчора, сьогодні -
Лише пусті слова, пил, зійшло нанівець.

Хто ти, що тримає серце моє в лещатах?
І чому саме ти, серед безлічі інших жінок?
Всі чесноти твої для мене не мають значення,
Та пронизує голос твій все одно до кісток.

Кожен видих твій, кожен зойк та сміх,
І мовчання твоє, красномовне і гордовите.
Я не чув роками, але все памʼятаю, все...
І в мені, воно, схоже назавжди залишиться жити.

What if you had the opportunity to find out your date of death? Would you take it? I've been thinking about it all night. The concept is as old as the hills; death has been a constant concern throughout human history. But if we abstract from death and its circumstances, such as the end of existence, then it becomes a fairly easy choice.

It's simply a decision that will irrevocably change your life. I suppose everyone has had at least a few of these in their lifetime: to leave or stay, to write or remain silent, to end a relationship or keep it going, to get a job or pursue further studies. And all of these questions come down to the same thing - taking responsibility, or not.

Everything you do in your life revolves around responsibility, every decision you make. If you're a mature person, you have to acknowledge it. Knowing your date of death means taking responsibility for the time you have left, for the people you love and who love you in return.

We had a strange relationship. She was my coursemate, and from the moment we met on the first day, I knew there was something special about her. She was a diligent student, a group leader, and it felt like she was from a different planet. While the studying process was occasionally fun, it wasn't something I was particularly fond of. I enjoyed attention and would often bother everyone around with my jokes and what I considered to be a refined sense of humor. I would write to her every week, sometimes pretending I had forgotten about the homework, and sometimes I genuinely had.

She had a boyfriend for a while, and I thought they were serious about each other. She would always yell at me, overreact, and send strange messages with multiple question and exclamation marks. However, one day, things took a different turn. We started flirting, sitting closer, and touching each other. Eventually, we even had sex. But it didn't last long. Her boyfriend discovered the truth by going through her phone.

In the end, she chose him, or at least that's how it seemed. I wasn't extremely disappointed because it had been a fun time, but it was a strange feeling. This all happened almost 7 years ago. Recently, we had another chat. I am now married, and she is single. However, the flirting went too far at some point, with phrases like "I'd like to give you a bj, but you have a wife." It's strange to say such things to a friend. So, once again, I find myself unable to maintain a friendship due to a ruined relationship caused by sex.

The same situation happened with K. She was a group leader during my master's degree. Do I have some kind of fixation on this? A few weeks ago, we had another chat, and it seems like I messed up once again. I don't know how to make friends, especially friends that I don't want to f. It's becoming harder every day, actually. The internet doesn't help either, it just makes everything worse. We don't feel the need to go outside anymore. I even work from home, eliminating most social contacts from my life.

Perhaps the people of the future will be very lonely. Maybe AI will replace real friends? Flirting with a language model instead of a real person could be seen as better from an ethical point of view. After all, it wouldn't be considered betrayal if it's not involving a real person, right?

I guess I'm just tired of trying to control everything. That has been the main concept of my life. I didn't have enough control in my childhood. Cruel and vicious things kept happening, and I was just a boy caught in the middle of it all. I lost my father without having a chance to say goodbye, and these memories have haunted me for years.

How can I save myself and my family? I have to find a job and work hard, but the pressure is weighing me down. Money is the key, the solution for a control freak like me. With money, I can plan and think ahead. However, I also recognize that it can be a trap. While it may be a useful tool, it should not become the sole focus or goal I strive to achieve.

But what is the goal? Do I have a dream to pursue? Honestly, I have never had a dream. I don't aspire to travel around the world. I don't want to have children who would simply be miniature versions of myself. I don't seek fame.

I would like to have a private house of my own, but I understand that it cannot be considered a dream. I am almost there. However, I fear that when I finally achieve it, it will not bring me the emotional fulfillment I am striving for. I'm afraid that I have been working for nothing.

And what comes next? Is the next goal to work hard to buy a big TV and a comfortable chair? That just seems ridiculous. There has to be something we are doing all this for. Something that keeps me going, despite all the foolish people around me, the cruelty, violence, and crimes they commit.

I don't need any simplistic, half-hearted solutions like religion. I don't want to believe in something just because my life lacks meaning. However, I do understand people who are okay with that. Life is harsh, and for some, it becomes an unbearable burden to keep living like this.