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The Walls Are Never a Prison

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I don’t need wine, cos’ I’m intoxicated with words

Bury yourself in an inexplicable sweetness of my words. – Olya Aman

The walls are never a prison, and any roof never stifles me. I manage to preserve the adventurism while being locked and isolated, for my words are real, as solid and true as every imaginable experience. They are the product of chaos, clutter, greed, insatiable hunger — love, tender feeling, sexual satisfaction, loving enthusiasm, and every possible set of emotions and reactions.

Like a hundred amorets, a swarm of words flies about my head. They leap from idea to idea and shot their arrows of completed sentences and passages into my willing heart. My imagination clothes the naked days with tender feelings, and in my happiness, the uneventful life turns into a fascinating adventure.

I worship the blank pages, ready to accept my writing. I trod on printed lines and shrug my shoulders with a delightful feeling of doing something venturesome, something magical, and absolutely unbelievable.

A day without my sweet mental struggle causes me every imaginable woe. And my heart beats almost painfully when a glimmer of a beautiful sentence makes my breathing strangely oppressive.

That is love. That is why I write. So if you don’t want to read me, that’s fine. I get my share of dope, pure intoxication, complete happiness in giving my words a chance to live and love.

I am too deliriously happy to care if you don’t like it

When I write I cannot tell if it is pain or pleasure. Every fraction of a second is such pure, beautiful madness. “What can be better than this?”, I say with something between a sob and a laugh.

My wayward nature wishes to be subjected to this strong guidance I feel inside me. Above all, I wish my stories to be written, released. When it happens, and I click on the ‘publish’ icon, I feel as if I shake hands with this independent being I’ve created, and my heart goes pit-a-pat against my chest.

It doubles my happiness if you can attune to the tragedy or laugh heartily with my protagonists — but if none of this happens, that’s fine.

I detach myself from the farther life of my stories

My dreamy and even dreary eye is following my heroes in their final stride to adult life, without my motherly watchful attention.

I reconcile myself to any ridiculous trappings. Acts, attitudes, external objects and people, bad stories written in the past, weaker characters brought to life in the present — all are the necessities that are wending my way to a future masterpiece.

I am resolved to let some of my breezy writings live. The truth is painfully simple: if I cannot make head or tail of some of my past work, there might be neither there. If this happens, I allow myself a prolonged moment of hilarious laughter.

I’m not to be bamboozled with negative feedback

There is something positive in the entirely negative criticism, as there is something damaging in a too favorable one. I am on good, or at least on good-humored terms with both.

I receive the first with that serenity, which is a characteristic feature of my personality, and which is close to gayety — an impulse to work harder.

The bare truth is — my story is liked, not me. I’ve changed since then. It is not me anymore who wrote it. I feel detached from any praise it receives.

I say to my fellow-writers, “Camp out, so to say, away from your finished work.”

Share my fondness for living in a story-book style. Turn the page, start a new chapter, without hesitation, with curiosity and desire to learn something new.

Notice the eternal bliss that is always with you. Don’t let any feedback deprive you of this delicacy of life. It is better to make mistakes often, being happy in the process, than making them often just the same, but with your heart in pieces.

You have words enough in your breast. They beat against one another like birds in a net, struggling to get free. Let them loose with no regrets.

Chronicles of a Hospice Nurse: Life Lessons Learned the Hard Way

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How you can be the richest person in the world

I am an artist that combines human unfulfilled dreams, last painful regrets, and agonizing pleadings into the greatest masterpiece this world had ever seen. – Olya Aman

I am a hospice nurse. I witness the end-of-life every day. I’m an expert in emotional and physical pain elimination. Physical pain is taken care of with the help of drugs; emotional—with the help of letters I offer my patients to write. I come home after work and reveal my daily impressions to my diary. It helps me understand the meaning of life, and our place in it.

Life most foul

Martin, a patient on a deathbed, is very weak. He has only a day or two left. Enough time to respond to a question, “Martin, you are dying. Who do you care about? What message do you want to send to those whom you love? This is a pen and a paper. I promise to deliver your letter.”

Martin laughs convulsively, shaking all over. Tears are streaming down his cheeks. All that emotion is tearing him apart. I can see the pain crippling down his throat.

A skill of commanding love is the only and the biggest blessing in life. To gain it be a Herculean task for me, much harder than to become a millionaire many times over. – Olya Aman

It is a beautiful experience: a handsome elderly man, with thin lips that forgot how to smile, and grey eyes that didn’t remember how to show pity or compassion. This person is transformed into the naïve boy he once was. The boy that used to believe in love and remember how that feeling could rejuvenate and heal. The boy that was generous in a way where he did not want it returned. He used to let himself forget what he had done for others, and because of that he never missed love.

Instruments of self-destruction

Martin responds with emotion, “Nothing. Listen! Nothing came easy for me in this life. Everything I had I needed to fight for. Gnaw out like a mad dog, breaking the teeth and trying to chew through all obstacles on my way — human or material. I didn’t care. And you know what? I buried my claws deeper in the human flesh rather than other things and I enjoyed it.”

Martin is overtaken by his memories. They haunted him for a long time and now he lets them out, freeing his mind and soul from their oppressing presence. He continues with passion, “But… Ha… everything I thought worth fighting for was irrelevant. The mere fog that is fading away at the sight of a brighter ray of the sun, running in fear of nonexistence. It is all… the houses I had, the cars I cared so much about, the jewels I traded for the pleasure of possessing another beautiful face, sensual body, and empty eyes — all of it was nothingness and left me when I went broke.”

There were many wars where Martin was marching with the flag of success, recognition, and money. Those were of no true importance. Nothing was left. An emotional lack was reining in his life. The understanding of this truth is torturing and rejuvenating at the same time. His following words prove it:

“Now I know, a skill of commanding love is the only and the biggest blessing in life. To gain it proved to be a Herculean task for me, much harder than to become a millionaire many times over. I had this skill when I was a kid. I lost it when I put money first on my scale of priorities.”

A moment of meaningful silence

Martin sobs, hiding his face in his hands. A moment of meaningful silence. I love this shared minute of wisdom. I never interfere. I let him experience this ocean of new feelings, wave after wave until his lungs can take this emotional fragrance and inhale it greedily, viciously.

Martin continues to open his heart to me and to himself, “I’ve lost everybody who cared about me. Everybody who I thought would be ever-present in my life by some weird universal law and with no effort on my side. Am I the only one who makes such a mistake? I traded Alive for Soulless. They needed me, my love, my attention, and my time. The most valuable things I never shared with my family. Then I thought it was too late.”

Martin was a traveler in a desert. His life was a sandy plain with mirages of abundance and each of them turned out to be another sandstorm that swept away one by one everything real in his life.

They say tears are not words, and words are not tears. Now, sitting by Martin’s bedside, I can tell that tears and words are inseparable. Every word he utters is a drop of regret, love, passion, and compassion, “No. The truth is — I was too proud to ask for forgiveness, too arrogant to make the first move. And now I am alone. They would have been beside me right now if I had been with and for them before. No one will miss me. No one! I have nothing to write on this paper because there is no one you can deliver it to.”

Martin dictates. I write. Now there are no tears to accompany his words. He was obsessed with such a common sickness of possession. He thought luxury could substitute for the warmth of loving humans. Every new object he obtained was draining his soul, making his heart numb — tough like a stone. He lost connection with his wife and son many years ago. I addressed his letter to his now grown-up son.

How Backbiting and Gossiping Ruined My Happiness

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Why, or rather when the opinion of others matters

Spend precious moments stubbornly biting your lips, speaking sternly, and acting openly… – Olya Aman

Dima was my first boyfriend. A terrible bore as he was, I loved him dearly. I always thought him to be above the average in the firmness of his mind. He read classic literature and spoke the language of 19th century romance. We were young and very much in love.

Dima was a sensible and handsome young boy of twenty at the time. I was a smart, pretty girl of eighteen with merry grey eyes and lofty, intelligent forehead. Today when I see a photo of us together, I remember how contagiously happy we were.

One incident ruined our happiness. Dima thought himself deceived, duped, and hopeless. A slough scandal was spread through the entire village and finally found its way to Dima’s ears. The tempest of doubt and dread, of jealousy and rage, almost blinded him. Some shallow minds believed it right away. People that wished us bad luck were rejoicing.

I got to the root of it only by hints and innuendos, as no one dared to speak openly with me about it. I stopped any intercourse with the poisoned humanity, the ones that readily accepted the circulating vile slander.

Dima’s spirits rose almost to madness when he heard the dreadful story of me being unfaithful to our love. I thought nothing could crush his faith in our shared future. The story was a lame one. Unfortunately, he believed that I could swear love to someone else.

The first night after discovering that his best friend was an instigator of the slander, a paroxysm of anger disquieted Dima’s breathing, and he bitterly reproached himself for the moment of weakness. His friend, a worthless reprobate, an impracticable fool, gave food to envenomed tongues, and they started to talk about me as if I was a little frivolous kitten going around and gifting my love to insipid individuals.

Eventually, Dima cut all ties with that false friendship. Forgot the way to his friend’s house. Wiped him off his phone contacts and social media accounts. He brushed the dirt of this acquaintance from his life. After what happened, Dima knew too well to keep such people at a great distance from his life.

My heart rejoiced when my parents and my elder sister took my side in this insinuated story. I felt strong support and stoic faith from them. My close friends showed me the true value of their relationship. People that sincerely wished me to be happy took pains to consider everything thoroughly. They recollected what they knew about me and found not even one reason to surrender to the falsehood circulating in the village.

This occurrence served as a great lesson for both of us. Dima’s so-called friend, being a jealous and wicked person, ruined our happiness. He did his utmost to bring about a fatal collapse to the true love between two faithful hearts. That unfortunate affair taught me to avoid provokingly jealous, heartless, and artificial people. I clean my life from any false attachment.

Today I make my life a pleasant experience, awakened by grand people. The mention of any piece of news that concerns me is heart-felt when coming from a loving soul and easily forgotten when coming from a distant and unimportant acquaintance.

The Train Compartment

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Let us be acquainted with my childhood friend Marta.

She is my noble and generous friend. Noble not by birth but by her personal qualities, virtues of the heart. Our strange friendship started in the first grade and ended in the 8th… to be renewed with the boldness, freedom, and maturity of womanhood.

When in school, Marta used to make fun of everyone in a boisterous manner. When someone came to the class with a new school bag the classmates used to say, “Marta will be mad before long, you wait and see.” And sure to the word, she gave enough time to lamentations that all the kids were ready to swallow up all the new things they had before Marta could lay her envious eye on them. They called her ‘the practical’ because of her love for all material things.

I rarely had anything popular at the time: the cool gadget pet that you can feed and it grows into a funny fat cat or a scary huge beast; the pretty multicolor pants all girls adored and considered the only possession that can pave you a way to a popular kids’ group; the denim backpack with numerous pockets, belts and buckles that every boy and a girl had; the list is endless. The lack of those things made my life a nightmare sometimes. I was an outcast in old neatly looking pants, and a sweater my mom made with so much love that I felt her hugging me each time I heard a bullying accusation. I looked so lovely in it, which made every teacher adore me. And… yes, I was hated for that even more.

Marta’s parents were respected doctors with busy schedules and no time for sentiments. She was well dressed, well fed, well groomed… and not loved enough. There were no grandparents to substitute the lack of genuine affection, her whole being was craving for.

She started to take a fancy to me mostly because I seldom had anything worth her attention and I liked her, because she was the only child walking home with me. My friendship happened to be the most precious thing for the child that could have everything in her life but for sincere affection.

After 8th grade, we’ve lost each other. Marta and her family moved to live in the nearby city, and I stayed in my native village till graduation.

A few years ago, a nice-looking woman entered my train compartment. The long trip to the far-away city was shortened to a thought provoking and tears causing conversation.

I wanted Marta to make the running. The inner writer and explorer of human mines raining in me. I was resolved to persevere in my silent patronage of the conversation.

Marta gave voice to her inner child, and we cried bitterly and laughed heartily at the memories of a girl who considered gifts to be the merits of love. A girl who could ill bear when someone had things she considered pretty and nice. She thought that meant someone was loved more — and that notion was painful for a child deprived of a genuine feeling.

That day in the compartment Marta looked contented. Strong character was visible in the physiognomy of this young woman with her big unmoving eyes, her almost lipless mouth, and a high intelligent forehead. Marta carried herself with confidence. There was not even a passing feeling of irritation, only that physical beauty that comes from the loving energy inside.

I was not able to take my eyes off her. She radiated positive energy and every word she shared was saturated with thoughtful consideration. I couldn’t help thinking that the person in front of me was not the Marta I knew.

When I asked her about the turning point, the element in her life that caused this alteration, Marta fell silent for a moment, so much taken up with her thoughts that her eyes seemed to stop seeing.

The loss she endured was painful enough to make her think of what she could have exchanged for a life given back. Her parents didn’t have time to love her, but she loved them with every cell of her body and every vibe of her soul. She was only 18 when an unchained element of nature left her an orphan, her parents’ car being smashed from the road by a violent gust of wind, both her mom and dad dying instantly.

It seemed like a dream, or fiction, or chimera. Vulnerable and insecure, Marta was left alone to think about the present. The past was gone, but the future was hers. Anything in that timeframe of days bygone and days to be still lived was compared to that particular incident.

I could see into the inside of her nature with the eyes that understand and the heart that can weep in unison with her soul. I lost my father in a car accident only a few months prior to our meeting with Marta. I finally had a person who spoke to my heart with the words it could understand.

Life, after having handled her so roughly, seemed now was willing to teach her the survival skills. She found the diary her mother had, and that precious notebook was full of tender words her mother seldom voiced but no doubt felt — and that was the only thing that mattered.

Marta was not going from then on, she was led by love. The exhilarating effect that love has, changed her understanding of true values. Any envious feeling towards material possessions of others disappeared like a star lost in the distant darkness of the horizon.

Her salvation was in a feeling of gratitude. Her beauty was in the desire to devote her life to the people she loved.

Marta had no family left. She decided to have a big one comprised of abandoned children, orphans. She volunteered for many years in various orphanages around the country and abroad. Marta’s family left her a substantial legacy which she spent on education and donated to different causes.

She witnessed life undisguised, seldom gentle and often cruel. Her experience made her compassionate and generous. Marta favored a minimalist approach to material possessions. She became a passionate advocate of children’s rights. Her dream was not to have a luxurious house and an expensive car, but a tiny home full of love and child’s laughter.

Our shared journey was coming to an end. Marta waited silently for any fresh question that I could have, being a little tired from all the various emotions she forced herself to go through again. She surely satisfied all legitimate curiosity, and I let her rest and husband her strength, joining her in contemplation of a succession of low hills and rich forests outside the window.

Marta became an active, vigorous woman, and even now I can see her in my mind’s eye being happy in her chosen career. She is a therapist working with at-risk youth.

She rarely breathes a word of her private misgivings, but always opens a listening spot in her busy schedule for a friend who needs some consolation. And she offers her love with that shy grace that is so very charming.

Marta and her husband do not give up hope to have their own kids. For over 10 years, they failed to conceive. They adopted a two-year-old girl and a 13-year-old special needs boy, two siblings whom they didn’t want to separate. Every time I visit my native country, I go to their house to get the feeling of unconditional love. This family is happiness personified. Her daughter experiments with my hair and her son makes me play all known table games with him. I go home with my hair tangled and my heart singing.