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Passe-Temps. Story of One Life. X

Yana Malysheva-Jones

The land with no hope — that’s what it feels to me. I get it now. Intuitively it feels like no one really wants anything, or aspire to become anything. It’s like a swamp with no movement, everything is stocked up inside, and everything is rotting. So weird — I look at young guys but see old people — they already know how to live, they don’t question their ways, and maybe that is what triggers me. It is stagnated, strangely refusing to change its ways. I might be totally wrong, but that’s what I feel. And my feeling is what I own without owing anything to anyone. Neither excuse or explanation.

I get overwhelmed with emotions and experiences daily. Maybe that is why I’m so tired all the time? The PTSD I had after giving birth to Max was a severe one. I mean it still is a severe one. And now I know how it can suck all the energy out of me. I’m tired every day — yawning and waiting for the day to end so I can be in bed again. I enjoy a lot of things I do during the day, often I even get very energetic and excited, but overall the place of my most comfort now is a bed. The most comfortable of them is the bed of my mother-in-law that I just left after sleeping in it for almost a month. I’m a Taurus after all — high quality bed linen and comfortable pillows are something that I find really important. So does she, she told me once. Therefore she doesn’t save money on mattresses and I’m a hundred percent on her side on this.

I am looking out of the window and seeing the beautiful English landscape but what stands in front of me is Jane, in her pink hoodie — a seventy-year-old woman in a hoodie, imagine! Crying as we leave the train station in a one carriage train. If not for the knowledge I would have never given her that age. Years of healthy eating and being a ballet teacher, as well as her discipline and persistance do their job. In many ways I admire this woman, in other ways I have lots of questions to her that I will probably never dare ask, though I’m trying to get better at it as I grow older.

I think of Nigel, my father-in-law. And the silent exchange between him and Ben — both holding their lips together not looking at what disappoints them — our goodbyes today in this case — only to find the way for their tears in the company of those whom they share most of it all — me and Jane, I suppose.

We are on our way to London from where we fly back to Russia. So much moving, so little stability. I used to think that this is what I need, though recently I feel that finding a stable place that I can finally call my home is what I need. I want to put all the rugs and carpets around that I desperately want to buy with all the money that I know I will earn.

I definitely will not be miserly when it comes to buying bed linen — just like my mother-in-law — good quality, getting warm when in contact with my body and staying cold where little empty spaces form in the bed. Just like humans warming up against each other and staying colder in places where they are alone.

I think of Jim, the farmer next door. He fell out with his mother for various reasons and I ponder my own relationship with my son. Where will we be when I’m ninety-five and he’s just over sixty? I don’t even want to think about it. I lay my head on Ben’s shoulder. He seems better now. Such an Englishman.

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