Moskvaer in Sweden: Contraindicated Perfection

Stockholm, Sweden, Summer 2015 th.

Here I am, day after day trying to understand and (if it‘s not too late) to escape the suddenly revealed to me new facet of attitude, which I previously knew only by hearsay, and which, to be honest, never took seriously. As it turned out, wrongly. Let’s call this facet so good, that it’s equally bad.”

1I had only to land at Arlanda Airport, when gracious Sweden instantly subjugated me to its rhythm and structure. It involved me in a kind of utopian idyll, to which one who belongs to post-Soviet period and post-Soviet space can never be ready, even if one suffers from the “Europeanization brain disease”.

Sweden carried me away in the intricacies of the trap: the environment here is so harmonious, so outrageously perfect, that the only challenge that a person here can put in front of him is deeply existential.

For a character like me, chronically reflective, it means death. Conceptual. And soon, I suppose, just death.

Even more. I think the ruthless perfection (although perfection is not quite the right word) is contraindicated to any person.

Once I am here, I do sincerely imbued with understanding and respect to the paradoxical phenomenon – endemic Scandinavian melancholy. To the depression. To the about-suicidal detachment. I do understand it and right here, today (June 16, 2:30pm) – do relate. My luck is that after a couple of hours I am going to get back to distressful Moscow where I could escape my own darkness behind the shadows of domestic social and political issues.
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I swear that never before, under any of the drugs known to me, in no familiar city, was I so naked in front of myself. And definitely I never ever made it so deep inside my own consciousness even despite “digging deeper” – is a case in which, as I thought, I reached the peak of mastery.

Despite that steep revolution that my mind is dedicated to all these days, I still look relaxed and happy. My face, figure and manners acquired traits of peace, without my little help.

Here I am, laying on the grass in a large beautiful park. Hiding from the sun under the crown of an old tree. Reading Henry Miller, listening to bird calls. Concentrating on the thusness of the moment, marveling and reveling its power. Bringing all that through the new found prism of perception “so good, that as much bad”.  It’s wild, monstrously strange. And I can’t find the right words to describe the nature of this feeling. But it exists, it’s not a myth.

So now I know. Perfection is unbearable. Proximity to perfection is equally unbearable. This can make your eyes bleed. All of your blood can flow from of your body through the eye socket, the mind can leave you, but as long as you stay in this perfection, there is something that will remain with you: light, slowly dissolving everything in itself, Sadness.

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About Yana135 Articles
Journalist by education, barstool philosopher by heart. Moskvaer. Rebel. Frustrated hedonist.

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