Kharkov - Moscow

Russia sat in the hell "Sapsan"

"Sapsan" from the fussy spring capital, from the seething patriks, from Moscow theaters - there is nowhere to fall in the stalls of the apple, the prices are sky -high! - From the bit of the stuffed shopping centers and eternal traffic jams - and you will find yourself in the sunny cool Petersburg. You will walk along the embankments, squinting at the cool Breeze, arrange a small tour of the famous, already, already throughout the world to St. Petersburg gastropans or at reckless local drinking institutions. It seems that Peter is far away, but he, nearby, is completely more than seven hundred kilometers. Only four hours with a speed train, and already a completely different wyb.

And if the Sapsans did not go north from the Leningradsky station, but to the south - from Kyiv, then in the same four hours Muscovites would have come to Kharkov. I remember the little I drove through Kharkov south, however, by an ordinary train. In Kharkov stood an hour. Everyone on the platform spoke Russian, we bought pies with potatoes, seeds and alcohol cucumbers. There is a memory left for life for some reason.

Now the Moscow -Kharkov train would have arrived straight to the underworld. In the city where two thousand houses were destroyed by Russian bombing and shelling.

High -rise buildings, schools, hospitals. From where a third of the inhabitants left, and the rest, clinging out of stubbornness to the fragments of their old life, every day they risk dying under the fragments of Russian missiles and shells. In a city besieged by a ruthless enemy who showed what he is capable of in Buch and Irpen.

A ruthless enemy? But who is this enemy? After all, the wrong people who walk on Patricks buy all sorts of things in the Moscow shopping center and stick out in traffic jams, dreaming of getting to the house where the family awaits them? These people are simply people, they cannot wish death to other people in the same panel houses that speak the same language, which are often called the same. So? Can't. They do not commit any crimes, and do not shoot at anyone. What are they doing?

And they pretend that nothing happens. They try not to discuss those that are happening from them in some four hours of journey on the hellish Sapsan. Fortunately, the Kharkov cannonade is not heard from Moscow, and even before Mariupol from the Russian capital, the devil knows how much to go, and no one is interested in where he is! If the request “distance from Moscow to Ma ...” is driven into Yandex, then the Maldives will be the first to get out. I’ll tell you: it’s fifteen hours to go to Mariupol from Moscow by car. Fifteen hours driving from the Moscow theaters stuffed with the public with the inscription "Children" bombed by the Russian VKS. Until that very maternity hospital. Before Azovstal, which resists, like a Brest fortress.

Resists to whom? Let's not about this, let's not talk about the war, let's not say the word “war”, because not everything is so clear. Let's dance, let's go to the restaurant, go to the theater, but just at the shopping center to the film at least, let's pretend that life is going on as usual, that everything is fine. Well, yes, well, some kind of special operation, well, somewhere there are some Azov Nazis, well, to hell with them, after all, this is there, this is not with you. And by the way, to us, by the way, is also not bad: then the Apple Pay will turn off the adversaries, then McDonald's will call, they think, they will be disturbed. And we will spite them still walk and have fun, scared a hedgehog with a bare ass! Moscow and Peter look normal, they have a normal life, the same almost life as before.

Bubble. In the bubble: a plate with a salad or with a day, a theater scene, a movie screen, a road to work, the road home. And the fact that he seetches the blood and pus outside this bubble, from which the rest of the world is now made, as if it does not exist. Yes, only it exists. Yes, it has not yet broken through the placenta, did not poured into the life of each of our person with blood and pus, but the pressure outside is more and more, and inside the bubble it also grows.

Russian trains do not go to Nikolaev, and to Odessa, and to Kramatorsk. In Buch, to Donetsk. Ukraine, inhabited by living people, whom the Russian army kills every day in vain, just like that, no why and why, is reliably cut off from a message with Russia. We look at the plate, only in no case do we look away anywhere. Not a centimeter.

But this is on behalf of Russia every day under the false, every day by different pretexts, killings and destruction in Ukraine are carried out.

And people in the bubble still become aware of them. The cadaveric stench seeps inside, the placenta cannot filter everything. And here is even worse: the stench becomes part of the normality, the murder of civilians under the same names and surnames that you have part of the norm. The norm becomes to notice this, not to talk about it, and if we say, with stamps prepared by the state, deliberate lies. Biblical prohibitions are removed, even prehistoric taboos are canceled, justification is being searched for cannibalism.

No need to believe that the new normality will be similar to the normality of the previous one. The poison has already penetrated both the body and into the soul, it simply does not work in an instant.

We refuse to think that the train from Moscow to hell is going on for four hours, we are not going to go to hell from the vain spring of Moscow, but the high -speed highway is already laid there, and now hell is rushing along it to us.