“There came an understanding that not everything is so good in the new life”. Luhansk journal

The school graduation ceremonies were held under heightened security measures. Security guards did not allow parking near schools, entry to educational institutions was only by pass, and ceremonial assemblies were held in gyms only for graduating classes. Competitions were canceled, just like everything that involved gatherings, crowds, or large concentrations of people.

The tragedy in Starobilsk left its mark on everything that is happening, but most importantly, it deeply undermined people from within. A fear appeared that had never existed before. Even in 2014, it was different. We did not see photographs and videos. But now, through the Internet, we see everything, we read reports around the clock, we look at the dead, we bury them through a screen, and then, as an afterthought, we listen to new songs about "Mom, I got killed", which are circulated in every social media.

And it became frightening to realize that it is so easy not to wake up, not to get out of bed, not to step into tomorrow. Somewhere between a casserole recipe and a weather forecast, you come across a photo of a person without a leg, a burned-out car, blood on the asphalt... You look at all this and understand the fleeting nature of life, the moment that separates everything.

And everyone descends on such news like jackals. They pass it around, mull it over, use it to exert pressure. You become a victim who is assaulted by news from television screens and every news outlet several times a day, again and again. Then at work you continue discussing what you saw and read—details, rumors, speculation. And it is unclear how to move forward, how to live as before, when casually, in passing, you see things that should not exist. And these news stories are so absurd, so destructive to the mind, that after them it is impossible to remain the same person.

Meanwhile, it is summer. For some reason, that is exactly what we talk about—that we waited for it and it finally arrived. With the arrival of summer come the news reports—a student was blown up by a river, a boy had his foot torn off while fishing, a friend heroically carried him out and saved him by applying a tourniquet. News about summer camps. The free vouchers to those camps keep getting worse—Saratov, wooden cabins with 15 people in a room... The options offered to schools are farther and farther from the sea, simpler and cheaper every year...

There is an increasingly strong feeling of fatigue with us. And it is as though something is being given to us for free, but more and more formally, just for reporting purposes—they accepted us, they provided recreation. So that the picture in the news looks right, so that a box can be checked.

Seaside camps began to be offered for substantial sums of money, but with a caveat—that such a low price is available only to trade union members. Russia stopped providing them for free, and it became clear that a great many things are beyond our means and very expensive.

Expense has become the defining feature of life. It is expensive to live, to eat, to relax, to travel. Expensive, just as it is in russia. And friends living in russia "reassure" us: it will get even worse. The quality of products will decline, prices will rise. But we live by these rules. There came an understanding that not everything is so good in the new life.

Large-scale roadworks are underway. They are changing the layout of roads and the shape of green spaces. In the heat and in downpours, they build, lay infrastructure, and work. And they do it effortlessly, tirelessly. Just as easily, they construct new houses, replace pipes, and repair roofs. We only watch. We have become grains of sand, spectators of what is happening. And despite the initial excitement, flaws are becoming noticeable. Water accumulating where it should not. Sinkholes in the asphalt. The first feeling of awe is replaced by disappointment. But like ants, workers fell trees and old concrete utility poles, lay roads in heavy rain, and string wires.

Prices continue to rise unnoticed. And the contrast is striking—an enormous number of cars alongside people living in deep poverty. Apparent prosperity and destitution.

They have started sounding the air-raid siren. It is very demoralizing. The siren is not heard throughout the city, only in the center. But nobody runs or hides; everyone lives as they did before the siren. Yet the sound seems to pull your soul out. And the owners of news websites write: siren, another siren, all clear, siren... Reading it is no better than hearing it. And you promise yourself not to read the news anymore, not to pay attention, and simply to go on living. Although living as before is impossible because the news changes you. A bus driver died of a heart attack when a drone hit his bus. Everyone managed to get out and survive, but the driver could not endure it, even though he saved people's lives. And these are the kinds of stories we hear every day. Are we really moving toward peace?

A friend whose son is in Ukraine tells me that she watches his status whenever he goes online. If he logged in, it means he is alive. And then she continues living. She watches that timer beneath his name. "Alive", she reads where most people simply see, "Last seen online at 23:00".

A feeling has emerged that life has been hollowed out. Compressed, accelerated, frantic. We must make it in time. Here and now. There is no time for silver and crystal, for linen tablecloths and elegant table settings. We are rushing to make it in time. We buy things as if tomorrow may never come. We rush to live, to see, to travel, to burn through life without postponing anything. We rush to do everything at once, whenever we want, as quickly as possible. Fast purchases, a fast pace to everything around us. For ourselves and for those who did not make it, for those whose tomorrow will never arrive. And there are photographs of wedding dresses with numbered tags on the walls of a morgue—they did not make it. For a moment, we slow down, only to start running forward again. To make it in time. To live. For ourselves and for those who did not make it.

By Olha Kucher, Luhansk, for OstroV