Classmates

Someone was left hostage to their own delusions,

Someone can not get rid of their doubts:

To do or not to do, to go or not to go,

So it remains in everything somewhere halfway.

Someone has already managed to get married and already divorced,

Someone was converted to a cult under the pretense of being saved

Someone believes in magic and predictions

And someone in prison is serving his fourth sentence.

Someone does not tolerate the spirit of Chekhov and Tolstoy,

He listens to chanson and does not understand what is wrong with it.

Someone began to sink and they did not have time to save him,

Someone offended me and can not forgive.

His parents wanted him to become a doctor

He studied for them, and eventually became a salesman.

Someone in all seriousness composes children's fairy tales,

And someone died before reaching twenty, and I do not exaggerate.

Can't remember someone's name

And someone writes on the Internet, right there.

Someone works in the police and sniffs cocaine,

And someone's parents died, and he was left alone.

Someone stayed in Spain as an illegal immigrant,

Someone works in M-Video as a sales assistant,

Someone is quite satisfied with life in the province,

Someone needs a metropolis, and he eventually dumps.

Someone puts a photo of his wife on the desktop in a frame,

And someone wants a divorce and can not pull this strap,

The one that was beautiful, turned into a fat heifer,

She buys vodka for her husband once a week.

She sits on social networks and remembers what happened then

When the trees were big, and that eleventh spring.

He picked up a song for her and sang along with the guitar,

And now he serves in the Airborne Forces and is completely dumbfounded.

Then it seemed that one way or another everything would be all right,

Nothing seemed more important than that playground

It seemed that everything would work out later and everything would work out,

We learn from the mistakes of others, but we do not learn from our own.

Traveling to places of childhood has become like going to a museum,

I have more acquaintances, I have fewer friends left.

And despite the nostalgic forms of joy,

Living in the past is the first sign of old age.

Vasya Oblomov, 2012