Alexander Gurnov is a journalist, TV presenter and political commentator for RT.
Alexander Borisovich considered that his best business card as an arbitrator of the fifth season, as well as a demonstration of love for his younger brothers, is an essay he wrote on behalf of a shaggy friend.
A DOG'S LIFE
The knowledge of love is punishable by happiness. I'm happy. Today. It happened so rarely, but now I know it will always be with me. Like the day he put his hand on my head for the first time...
I didn't think about love then. As everyone. But now I know or rather I feel that love is a feeling. A feeling similar to sight, hearing, smell or kindness; a feeling that is born with us and rediscovers the world millions of times with each pair of newly opened trusting eyes. But its life is short. And if all other feelings become dulled over the years, then love never does. It's just dying. It dies at some elusive moment for the whole universe, closing in on you, you alone, and makes you live forever.
A dog doesn't get hurt. It only hurts the first time, the very first time. Then you get used to it. People call it "obedience." It's strange! I think that's why they think so, because they cannot understand that obedience and love are the same thing. Like happiness and pain... Although many of them instinctively manage to find happiness in the pain that surrounds them, as well as us, from all sides. That is why, having matured and understood this, love acts very wisely by closing itself inside us and, thus, remaining surrounded only by passive abomination.
I remember before, sometimes to please myself, I bit someone, so slightly, just to make them cry, not to bleed, and thus tried to pull out of the predatory mouth of life a small piece of joy for myself...
He seemed like such a piece to me too. Very little, because being always deeply convinced that of all of us alive, people are the most disgusting thing, I hoped to find a smaller piece for myself. Besides, at first it seemed to me that this connection would be inexpensive for me. Almost nothing. And I came up with it... And he began to treat me with sweets, pat me on the head and talk for hours while walking in the park. He also sang. In a low voice. And I tried to sing along, although, probably, it could only be called music with the degree of assumption with which some people hear singing in the howling of the wind over the waves.
And now I feel like such an empty, lifeless shell, carried away by fate to God knows where, placed on a cozy shelf in the labyrinth of everyday life, in which the poetry of my so distant, indestructible, exciting surf of youth still continues to be heard. And through the rain-soaked glasses of my memory, I now see his fingers, which refusing to obey the efforts of the will, still continued to love me, and could not stop messing with my head. Poor fingers, who were you trying to fool? After all what he did not dare to say, I saw in his cold eyes, as it is impossible not to see a fragment of tenderness at the bottom of even such a bottomless well as sadness.
And at that moment, my love broke out for the first time for the first time to look into It, but immediately closed eyes, receiving a loud slap in the face from the slammed door.
And then I realized that separation turns our love into a quiet Sadness, and probably that's why those who call themselves people, looking at us, are surprised: "What eyes! Like a human..."
1979