We are typical city dwellers. Born and raised in the "stone jungle". Accustomed to the bustle of the city since childhood. The smell of a pine forest is replaced by the smell of gasoline burned out in the engine, and the morning singing of birds is the ringing of the first morning tram passing under the windows. And yet we are building a country house ...
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Man is a creature that can never stop. We are constantly running somewhere and looking for something. In pursuit of the ghostly mria.
Grabbing the blue bird, we look at it for a while. To suddenly discover that the special blue of her wings seemed so desirable only from afar. But in fact, it is just a sparrow of an unusual shade. We unclench our fingers, allowing the dream bird to quickly dash away. To run again, in pursuit of the next.
The world is so arranged that we dream about what we do not have. And having received, we dream to get rid of.
Perhaps this is why we, city dwellers to the core, are so eager to escape from the familiar urban world. Away from the annoying hustle and bustle, to the much-desired peace and quiet.
There, where there are huge pines and such a high, piercing blue sky. Where the hot day is so dazzlingly bright, and in the evenings, when the heat gives way to the evening coolness, the world is filled with the singing of blackbirds. Under the trills of which, you want to endlessly sit on the porch with a glass of ice champagne. Chatting idly and staring at the stars. Well, what could be more beautiful?
The first few days.
After a week, the idyll ends. You suddenly realize that such a romantic subtle ringing of a mosquito, somewhere in the distance, means that soon you will have to violently slap yourself on the body.
That the blackbirds, whose singing is so touching, insidiously devoured all the strawberries that you diligently watered, dragging water from watering can after watering can.
That the wind not only rustles in the tops of the huge pines, but also breaks their branches. And you, once again, will have to disassemble the rubble, getting dirty in the amber-transparent, disgustingly sticky resin.
It becomes absolutely impossible to live wrapped in a cotton wool of silence. The city hustle and bustle is painfully lacking. There is not enough crowd hurrying somewhere along the city streets. There is not enough noise of cars rushing under the window. The clatter of tram wheels and the roar of idiots driving motorcycles along the night streets.
You lock the house and rush back. Back in such a native stone jungle. To stand in traffic jams, scolding that idiot in front who bought a car but didn't learn to drive and breathe in the aroma of a big city.
Exactly for a week ...
And you again run away from the hateful city. Towards tall pines and green grass. In such a nice country house that I built with my own hands. Cursing myself for the greed that made me build such a huge khabazin.
To sit on the porch in the evening and slowly pull champagne from a tall glass. To the ringing of a mosquito and the trill of an invisible thrush ...
You ask why do we need a country house? That's for this. ツ
Do you understand me? Do you have a house outside the city? And what about the blackbirds, pines and a strawberry bed? Or are you just dreaming so far?
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