On the Wings of Hope : Prose

Camera suddenly twitches, sharply floats somewhere downwards, then upwards, again downwards and upwards, speeding up on its way, and then for the last time dives down and flies directly into the open doors of some building, dives in corridors for a few times and then stand still in immovability. A huge hall opens before televiewers, filled with people in glasses, dressed in white dressing gowns. Those ones, standing near walls, amicable as though on command, with a periodicity of several seconds hit the wall with their heads, making a sound, somewhat resembling a “bom!” Those unlucky ones, who have got no walls in their direct possession, are standing in the center of the hall on their knees, and with so smaller persistence strike a stone floor with their foreheads with approximately similar periodicity. The show depresses and bewitches simultaneously.

Fyodor :- Oh, stop this nonsense, help them heal, or other way themselves they’ll kill!

V.V.P. :- Ones in depression cannot thrive. Such is the way of disbelief.

Fyodor :- Their minds are useful still. Hope soon better they will feel.

V.V.P. :- To learn themselves they do not try … and in such actions their soul cry.

Fyodor :- One cannot learn himself through mind, a path to soul must he find.

V.V.P. :- I hope someday they’ll read this text. What are we going to watch next?

Fyodor :- In what casemates priest creep, being left without “faithful” sheep?

V.V.P. :- Ivan have seen how faithful ones pray not in church, yet sing and dance!

Camera changes its foreshortening once more, takes off from an institute building, winding through narrow and twisting corridors, then soars up in heavens and rushes in whitish clouds, from time to time looking at the sun as if for the sake of joy. Then sharply dives downwards, hardly not hitting an iron cross, decorating the top of the building, and flies into the open gate of some large temple. A truly intriguing picture reveals before the eyes: the last left in the church priest does, apparently, something unimaginable. He periodically fills his hands with a handful of “sacred” water and “tastes” it on a tongue, promptly screwing up ones face and meffedly whispering something under the nose; or removes a heavy cross, hanging on a neck, and strikes himself with it into a forehead, shouting “Amen” for better effect; or approaches a random icon, and starts ogling; or sits down on a floor in a pose of a lotus and begins beating out a tap dance on all the crosses, necklaces and other jewelry, covering his body; or with a heart-rendering cries “I banish thee, I tell ya!” starts rushing over a hall, threating someone invisible with a overgilded cross. This show frightens, intrigues and bewitches at the same time.

Fyodor :- I wonder, is that priest mad?

V.V.P. :- A ritual plague this priest had.