Книга Remember me - Bagul Atayeva

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,