WE DWINDLE IN BOREDOM —

WE DWINDLE IN BOREDOM — BORING OURSELVES IN THE TORMENTS OF NON-COMPLIANCE WITH THE CANONS OF THE LORD'S WAY
Epigraph
Don't saw sawdust. It's already sawed. The past is past. But man stubbornly stands behind the saw, trying to rewrite what has long become dust...
— Dale Carnegie

The essence of our moving nature —
with the first cry, the child's weeping,
depicting locomotive power,
rushes half-asleep into the dead-end of the station depot:
having stepped at full steam into the private narrow-gauge track,
covered with sawdust — absolute dread —
and we wait for at least someone to call it a "mass"!

The world of calculators adores this movement.
They accelerate their trains,
burn the coal of ambitions,
rush along the narrow gauge of personal resentments and fears.
The past is already sawed — into a fine, flying dust.
Yet they keep sawing.
Sighing. Complaining.
Taking a log out of the shed of memory and again — vzhik-vzhik —
right across the living heart.
"If only I hadn't back then...", "But he told me...", "I wasn't understood..."
The shavings fly into the eyes.
The eyes — go blind.
And the train — derails.

And on the platform… they keep silent.
Because they know:
You cannot oil the rails that lead into Yesterday.

So what is Happiness, Maestro?
It is to stop being a Sawer.
To become — a Sailor.
To throw away the saw.
To hoist the sail.
To stop asking the sawdust: "Why?"
And to ask the wind: "Whither?"

The philistine saws the log of "I was offended."
The sage — chops down the mast of "I forgive."

Epilogue.
Every man is a damn fool for at least five minutes every day. Wisdom consists in not exceeding the limit! — a beautiful admonition from the very same good-natured Carnegie.

Alın Ak with KaJe MeG — ALWAYS ALONG WITH the Constellation of the Beautiful Gina and Her Charming Child