Bereschino SAROV
I’ve entered the carriage. I didn’t want to stay in Bereschino any longer. I don’t know when exactly I’ll see this place – or an in-between space? – again. Everything’s very fragile right now. The last words that my grandma and grandpa told me before I left were: “We will live to see you again”.
Time flies faster even in Sarov. Even in Bereschino. I’ve remembered how in 2018? 2019? I was writing on the train about this place. That summer I was mourning my childhood. I had realised that when I drew a beautiful sketch of a playground near my grandma and grandpa’s house.
Back then in Bereschino, the same Bereschino, I was thinking about how this place is foreign to my own world – and the world in general. How liminal it is, connecting and separating at the same time. How the time stops there and you’re being left “nowhere” feeling “nothing”. Sunrise, sunset, night.
Today as well.
But something has frightened me so much this time.
This thing scares me a lot nowadays.
But here it’s even more noticeable.
Time has sped up mercilessly.
I’ve seen it in how my grandpa is losing his memory.
In the dizziness that my grandma has.
In the amount of familiar places that I’m able to visit when I come to Sarov.
In the amount of what I want to do and what I’m actually able to do.
In the speed with which I can change from one carriage to another.
In the amount of cigarettes that I smoke when I wait for the change of the locomotives in Bereschino.
In how the conductors have changed.
In how they now say BerechinO and ArzamEs.
In for how long the train stops in Bereschino and the amount of thoughts I’m able to think during that time.
The moon today is huge, half-hearted and yellow. It seemed like a good anchor for me – it’s easy to cling to.
One carriage further there was already the light of the new locomotive blinking. As long as I can remember myself, I was always waiting outside to see how it’s being coupled to carriages.
I’ve made this my second anchor.
For some reason I was waiting for a smoking man in the uniform that was managing the process to tell me to go away, and then I would have told him that as long as I can remember myself I was always waiting outside to see how the locomotive is being coupled to carriages. I really wanted to tell him that, but he never even looked at me.
I looked up and found a satellite in the night sky.
I found more stars – the third anchor.
The locomotive made some hissing claps and I thought about wars and fireworks.
I turned my head to see the young conductors that were calling Arzamas – Arzames. They were using a green laser pointer to point at the column of smoke rising from the locomotive. At this exact moment everything became painfully clear to me. It was almost as refreshing as the cuts that I leave on my own body sometimes.
“We will live to see you again”.
I won’t see them again.
I turned to see the moon and saw how it slouched a bit down from the sky, and how the cloud has cut it in halves.
The first anchor broke loose.
The locomotive quieted down.
The second anchor broke loose.
I entered the brightly lit carriage and opened my diary.
In the window I can only see the reflection of the insides of the carriage.
No stars, no Bereschino.
The third anchor broke loose.
I’m finishing this in the already moving train.
Bereschino exists only when you are there.
There isn’t any Bereschino anymore.
I don’t know if it’ll appear again.
written in Bereschino in august of 2023