Sraigės taurė

Please allow me to begin by describing the depth of my consciousness where time is turned outwards and its cycles become an eternal reality…
Memories crash like waves on the shores of my mind, reminding me of moments from the past. Sometimes they whisper gently, as if they are remembering joy, and sometimes they rise in big wavy shots, opening up painful memories that make my eyes water!
Let’s start the celebration with the world that I, Snail too, observe from the bottom of the river.
It is a world where many live in haste, concerned only with their own personal interests and responsibilities, and the warmth of relationships and community spirit have vanished like the pure lapping of waves in the distance.
It won’t be long. But how long does it last.
Today, the rhythm of everyday life happened again: I took a shower, I washed away the accumulated worries when they got into the bathroom sink. I can only make a joke about it as far as getting too attached. But of course laughter is my only remedy.
I am just a Snail living in cold water, like an unbearable weight. But today, when you touch the other apartment, the boredom of the repetition of my daily routine is exactly what led me to this misunderstanding.
He looks like most of us—goofy, attractive, and preoccupied with his various concerns. His screws are like a labyrinth in which he himself seemed to have wandered. It turns out that I, too, got lost in that labyrinth, in the depths of which lies a little one secret…
(…)
———
The body of the Snail cup was sturdy but elegant, made from found scraps of wood, polished to a shine that reflected the glints of sunlight. The top of the cup was slightly wider, elegantly curved outwards, with a soft edge like a tongue, like a Moka Pot.
Around the cup were carved small, almost invisible inscriptions, as if in an ancient language, which could only be read by those who knew their meaning, but no one knew. These vague notes were like markers of time, reminding me of past naps and groggy morning awakenings, that’s all there is to say. It was decorated with delicate but intricate carvings and burnt designs depicting various motifs of flora and fauna that appeared alive and changing depending on how the light fell on them with the eye, which when shrunk created a spectacular, if barely traceable light show, steadily telling an engaging story of Waiting and the Dignity of Time, with open windows, like the mouth of a gaping Snail, leading to a different state of the world.*
———
(…)
And so, after a long time, the Snail and her cup were already laughing together, waiting for new gifts of life, because they knew that every day, every moment is always a belated gift to each other.
“I am their Crop Rotation, but how they act, what their childhood is, all the more so
the question is how to celebrate our triumph over degraded forms
and so on… they don’t care a bit!” – said cup, smiling, to me that time.
*Reconstruction of the Snail’s cup from little Memory houses