Remember me [Bagul Atayeva] (fb2) читать постранично

Bagul Atayeva Remember me

Many celebrities are asked about what love is, how they understand it. Everyone answers in their own way. But they are united only by the fact that no one is able to give a final answer, and the dots have not yet been put over i. I am glad that, although I am a mere mortal, I found the very long-awaited answer. I found it, clutching my hand on my chest, when I walked around the room like ancient Greek philosophers, and nothing could make me give up this habit; not a word from people who are very concerned about my health, not a word from neighbors, supposedly girls should not behave like this, they need to do more housework and create a home comfort. No matter what, I still remained myself and continued to fill my constantly functioning brain with various interesting thoughts.

In my diary, to the question: "What is love, and how do you understand it?", I wrote with great pleasure: "Love is only for those who are created to create a love story. So many disappointments in people's lives happen only because they give out wishful thinking for real. And the love they dream of so much is given to those who are specially born for it" Do not think that it was easy to come to such a conclusion. To be fair, I have to say how many innocent tears I shed. I had to learn to laugh through tears, to say goodbye without forgetting, saying goodbye, to continue to love in silence. Over time, the cruel life took pity on me, and at the age of nineteen I reached the truth that ordinary mortals do not even dream of. It started to seem funny to me when other girls were crying for love. And I calmed them with the same words that calmed me once. "Everything will be fine with you… or without you" And those poors begged me to comfort them with words that the next one will be much better. Since only the truth saves a person, I told them the simple truth: "There is no such truth that the next one is better than the previous one. There are only good ones," I sympathetically wiped away bitter tears, stroked their long hair with sympathy. I am still surprised at the pride I felt for them, realizing more and more that a woman loves more than men, and that she is much nobler in love. Therefore, I love feminine nature. Her dumb, noble nature. And I want to tell you the story of a failed love. My dear reader, you probably already know something about my character, but in order for you not to consider me like this from birth, I will tell you how I became one.

It was when I was in the eighth grade. I was one of those who knew my worth, who considered myself an opening to society and precocious. Imitating the most sentimental heroes of books, I solemnly repeated: "There is no love." But the more I inspired myself with these thoughts, the more I wanted them to turn out to be fakes, and that, like on a clear day, the same guy appeared, whose appearance I am waiting for with false hatred. And so, it happened. But I, absorbed in myself, seem to have forgotten that he should love me too. You, probably, my dear reader, have thought about the story of unrequited, or at least platonic love. What if I tell you the wrong thing and not the other?!

Our school was considered the best in etrap, because many useful personalities came out of its walls. Either, indeed, the abode of knowledge is a secret place, and everything that is hidden affects a person, or from the praise that I heard, almost every day in my address, I loved school more than my native hearth. At school, where many feel-like prisoners of one fortress, I felt free. Perhaps it was also because I turned over many pages of books intended not for students, but for teachers. One day, an unknown guy came to my "two-storied Oxford". In a short time, he became the most popular among us, so popular that even Hollywood stars paled in comparison with him. The girls reacted to him with such delight and trepidation that they considered it their duty to inform others about the latest news from his personal life. These praises, as I used to think at that time, “silly girls” began to annoy me more and more. And I, not seeing him, hated him very much. But the more my hatred grew, the more I remembered the girls' words, the clearer they sounded in my ears: "You should have seen him, Rose! Such an amazing guy with a foreign upbringing, «Of course, I have nothing against someone else's upbringing, but this was the case when you had to find fault with anything. "With a foreign upbringing… hmm. as if we don't have enough of our own. He must be a fool who is ashamed to be himself," I thought.

Once, at a Turkmen language lesson, I was told that a geography teacher wanted to see me. I, without looking up from the analysis of the sentence, asked: "Maybe she wants to show me the active volcanoes of Japan?" Of course, it was sarcasm. The teacher once refused me one request, and I returned her debt in the form of mutual refusal. And then, I did not agree with her assessment and included her in the ranks of teachers who did not understand me. I retaliated by giving her a headache with antics unrelated to the lesson. Oddly enough, that day I decided to go to her, because, anyway, I had to go to wash a rag. Out of habit, hurriedly descending the stairs, I wanted to turn right. And then there was a collision. Adjusting the glasses that had slipped to the side and muttering: "Well, what is it…", I looked at the guy standing opposite, who, although he said "sorry", it was not clear whether he was sorry or funny. Even without waiting for an answer, he just went on. I assumed that this was the same guy with a foreign upbringing. After all, it was the first time I saw such a person at school. Yes, and outwardly he looked like the one who was described with such delight. For a long time, I could not forget him. The desire to be where he was pushed me to various stupid actions. Despite the fact that he does not pay any attention to me and is not interested in me (And this upset me to tears), I did not put on makeup and dress in a European way. But I began to take part in the Olympiads with great enthusiasm, because now I had a desire to prove to someone that I was strong and educated. Then I didn't understand that all my attempts to attract his attention were useless. And this is understandable, if we take into account the fact that I didn't love anyone before, and for the same reason they didn't love me, everything becomes clear. But, where did it occur to me to fall in love with the one about whom all the girls of the school dreamed? So, what if he has indescribably beautiful, innocent eyes? But, is it just the eyes? He reminded me of those dreams that were wild stupidity for a simple provincial. His appearance, tall stature, black, burning eyes, like a brunette from Hollywood movies, and the fact that he spent a lot of time abroad, were like romantic pictures from my imagination. I believed that he was special, and my unrealistically beautiful dreams had to be special with him. He made me believe in myself. For those who doubted their abilities, it was a great happiness to find a person who would inspire faith in dreams and that they would come true. Every single day brought anxiety to the girl, who exchanged imperious loneliness for love for a guy with innocent eyes. I turned in my thoughts, saw in dreams our fateful meeting. And I was constantly thinking about how we would meet. Then something happened.

From the day we sat down at the desk until graduation, we are told not to draw on the desk. I will lie if I say that I do not fulfill all the requirements. But, among the unfulfilled requirements was the habit of writing sometimes on the desk. Perhaps this is because the desire to write did not leave me alone for a minute, and therefore I wrote everywhere: on leaves, on walls, on handkerchiefs. And then one day, in an English lesson, I decided to write a song on the desk” Somebody is me". This world-famous song began with the words: "Do you remember me like I remember you» Wrote. Since it was a common thing, I soon forgot about the recording. But I couldn't forget the person I imagined listening to this sad song. After that day, I came to school early and sat down to repeat my lessons. From watching the movie until late at night, my eyes were blurred and my head ached. Yes, in addition, I wanted to sleep. Not wanting to torment my sleepy eyes anymore, I decided to take a nap. When my cheeks touched the cold desk, I saw an entry made in large letters. It was the answer to that sad song. The author did not hide his name. It was Serdar, whom I was constantly thinking about. I found out the day I ran into him that he was one year older than me, and that day I found out that we were both sitting at the same desk. And then, only Serdar could write lines from the song so competently, even better than me, without grammatical errors. I