Perfect Blue

Step. A trembling pierces the body with an electric discharge. The light hits your eyes like a hot whip. You involuntarily squint, covering your face, wet with sweat, with your hand. And the crowd near the stage is chanting your name like a mantra. The mouth, barely touching the microphone grid, as if programmed, automatically squeezes out the memorized words of a famous song. And thoughts rush through my head in a crowd, sticking to each other like burrs. You've always dreamed about this - fans, stage, music, and you're the center of attention. Pink skirt with bright frills, lace stockings, microphone, blinding spotlights. In the back of your mind, an obsession is stirring and scratching - it’s time to grow up. You want more fame, you want to grow, you want... There are so many “wants” that you cannot keep yourself within the usual framework of everyday life. And, it seems, I just turned around, and instead of the enthusiastic exclamations of the fans, the director shouted “Take 2!”, the colorful dress flew into the closet for indefinite storage, having been replaced by clothes “according to the script”, the microphone flew out of your hands like a champagne cork, and you lie there, caressed by dozens of glances from grinning men. And already losing the thread of reality, through the thickness of the water you hear the croaking “Stop! Cut!” And it seems that your dream has come true, even if you don’t shine in the foreground, even if your role is very unassuming, but you are an actress! Not a third-rate singer, no. Close your eyes to humiliation, ridicule, dubious role. Time to change. Is this what you wanted? This? A camera flash, a lustful whisper, “Turn to the right. Be more frank.” You were wearing a shirt. Or did you just imagine? No, you were definitely dressed. Or not?... Life turns into a one-man show, pink glasses are dusty and cracked, and from the mirror a strange girl in a pink frilly skirt persistently repeats “I am a singer, I am a singer!” You read your life, your every day on the computer screen and are amazed: “Did I write this? It wasn’t like that!” Do you know how it was - “like that”? You are walking on a thin line over an impenetrable gray abyss full of unclear images. Death after death. You are drowning in the warm waves of madness. Perfect blue surrounds you. And from the mirror they persistently tell you, “It’s better, they’re stopping you from becoming a singer.” And you are no longer you. And the breath hitched from the rapid running, the desperate cry of horror is unlikely to stop the blade cutting the air. There is only one thought pounding in my brain - to open eyes. Open up, open up! Trembling pierces the body with an electric discharge. The light hits your eyes like a hot whip. You involuntarily squint, covering your face, wet with sweat, with your hand. "Dream?..." You sigh with relief, falling onto the blue sheets and involuntarily rubbing your watery eyes and burying your nose in the blue of the duvet cover. And the crowd near the stage is chanting your name like a mantra.