Elliot/Valerii

For a long time, on my profile picture was Dave Mustaine. I never really put much thought into it. It was there and that’s all that mattered. Better than having nothing. Now, instead of the Megadeth frontman (I was tired of that photo, not gonna lie), there’s some Soviet-style room with a guy sitting in the middle. It’s just a random photo I found on the internet a couple of years ago.

But what’s kind of sad is that this photo actually means something to me. I grew up in a room like that.
Only, in my room, in a flat in a typical Soviet panel house, there was a massive bookshelf left behind by the previous owner. It was filled with classics, most of the editions were over 30 and 40 years.
Opposite the shelf was a wardrobe, a desk, my bed… and my toys. I’m not a kid anymore, but I still love my toys. And my room — it was warm. I remember that. Even though it didn’t look exactly like the one in the photo, that image still fills me with a strange warmth and nostalgia.

But there’s one thing about it that breaks my heart. Every time I feel physically cold now, I mentally go back to my room. That’s probably the most painful memory.

The power was out. It was late February or maybe early March. It was cold. The same room where, just a year before, in 2021, I’d stayed up late listening to music, reading, finishing homework, and genuinely believing there would be no full-scale war. That room became freezing. So cold that my mom started using it like a fridge, since the actual refrigerator didn’t work without electricity.
I hid under a blanket, shivering. And when the sun went down, I’d stare at the candlelight and blow it out early, hoping it would last until the next night. All I wanted was to fall asleep quickly. Only the bombings kept my heart frozen.

I’ll never forget February 24, 2022.
At home.
In Kharkiv, Ukraine.

I can't help but write about it.

TW graphic descriptions of injuries and wounds, (wartime) death, suicide or suicide attempts, severe trauma, amputations, hospital imagery, (war-related) violence, PTSD.

Book context: Paul Bäumer is wounded and is in the Catholic Hospital.

Real-life context: Erich Maria Remarque was wounded by shell shrapnel in his left leg, right arm and neck on 31 July 1917, and after being medically evacuated from the field was repatriated to an army hospital in Duisburg, where he recovered from his wounds. After that, in October 1918, he was recalled to military service, but after the end of WWI, he put an end to his military career.

"On the next floor below are the abdominal and spine cases, head wounds and double amputations. On the right side of the wing are the jaw wounds, gas cases, nose, ear, and neck wounds. On the left the blind and the lung wounds, pelvis wounds, wounds in the joints, wounds in the testicles, wounds in the intestines. Here a man realizes for the first time in how many places a man can get hit.

Two fellows die of tetanus. Their skin turns pale, their limbs stiffen, at last only their eyes live—stubbornly. Many of the wounded have their shattered limbs hanging free in the air from a gallows; underneath the wound a basin is placed into which the pus drips. Every two or three hours the vessel is emptied. Other men lie in stretching bandages with heavy weights hanging from the end of the bed. I see intestine wounds that are constantly full of excreta. The surgeon's clerk shows me X-ray photographs of completely smashed hip-bones, knees, and shoulders.

A man cannot realize that above such shattered bodies there are still human faces in which life goes its daily round. And this is only one hospital, one single station; there are hundreds of thousands in Germany, hundreds of thousands in France, hundreds of thousands in Russia. How senseless is everything that can ever be written, done, or thought, when such things are possible. It must all be lies and of no account when the culture of a thousand years could not prevent this stream of blood being poured out, these torture-chambers in their hundreds of thousands. A hospital alone shows what war is.

I am young, I am twenty years old; yet I know nothing of life but despair, death, fear, and fatuous superficiality cast over an abyss of sorrow. I see how peoples are set against one another, and in silence, unknowingly, foolishly, obediently, innocently slay one another. I see that the keenest brains of the world invent weapons and words to make it yet more refined and enduring. And all men of my age, here and over there, throughout the whole world, see these things; all my generation is experiencing these things with me. What would our fathers do if we suddenly stood up and came before them and proffered our account? What do they expect of us if a time ever comes when the war is over? Through the years our business has been killing;—it was our first calling in life. Our knowledge of life is limited to death. What will happen afterwards? And what shall come out of us?"

A piece from the tenth chapter of All Quiet on the Western Front.

Everything that was written about hospitals (Dying Room, for instance) and lazarettes was something Remarque actually witnessed. Young boys trying to kill themselves after becoming blind (it was written in the chapter ten that nurses tried not to give a knife to a blind soldier, however, he tried to kill himself with a fork) or after losing one leg (remember Albert's words?), people dying of tetanus, beds becoming empty, intestine wounds...

I believe that Paul Bäumer as a character was, in fact, Erich Maria Remarque's alter ego. Paul became the voice. Not only Remarque's, but the his entire generation's (which is, according to the theory of generations, Lost Generation). Paul speaks of died because of WWI boys, who had no life after school and were taken to a battlefield, tells about poor families like his, who were constantly worried about their sons and had no idea of what the front really was (chapter seven), explains why the war happened (chapter one: "The wisest were just the poor and simple people. They knew the war to be a misfortune, whereas people who were better off were beside themselves with joy, though they should have been much better able to judge what the consequences would be," and chapter nine: ""Then what exactly is the war for?"asks Tjaden. / Kat shrugs his shoulders. "There must be some people to whom the war is useful."") and which consequences it has. And I tremble with rage when I see people who genuinely believe this book is "too depressing" or "senseless" (my classmate really said that, and I know she's not the only one with this opinion). Or, what's worse, I saw a screen of a negative review in which AQOTWF was called a "libertard mindset propaganda" (well, it was actually written regarding the 2022 film, but still).

Paul, like many, many killed boys in reality, had hobbies (chapter seven: "Above me on the wall hangs the glass case with the coloured butterflies that once I collected"), favorite food (chapter seven: ""there is just your favourite dish, potato-cakes, and even whortle-berries to go with them too.""), friends... Yesterday it was all here, today it's destroyed by war. By a senseless war which is only profitable for rich.

All these very rare photos of celebrities with their families, children, and even screenshots of messages with someone which are posted by the fans just scare me. Are celebrities not human and don't deserve personal space? Is it so hard to respect a person's personal boundaries (yes, yes, celebrities included)?
It's not the fact that members of my favorite bands have their own lives that scares me. It's the fact that some fans post their idols' personal family photos on the internet, even though they don't know these people personally in real life (consequently, I doubt they have permission to post such things) and only love their art scares me.
Maybe I'm worrying too much about things I shouldn't be thinking about at all, maybe this whole post doesn't make sense, but I wanted to say that for a very long time.

TW: self-hate and many other bad things.

Well... in March, I got a writer's block. I swear, I had so many fanfiction ideas in my head, but neither of them was released and actually written, even though I had everything: plan, desire, passion, ideas... It just didn't go. But the worst of all was anxiety. "What if this is not realistic?" and "This is terrible." "Your readers are waiting!" and "Look, they forgot about you, and they love other authors more than you. You're not needed to anyone!" "Look, many authors are already writing their 50th fic. Why are you so lazy?" and "The world would be better without the piece of garbage like you." Nightmares about being hated and having to leave fanfiction world. Terrible scenes in my head. I lost my love for the fanfiction (and not only it — many other hobbies I loved were almost forgotten). A huge amount of terrible situations got me off track.
And I realized that this must NOT continue. I have many, many ideas. So I should implement them. At least one or two.
And maybe I'll change the language I'm writing (I used to write in two languages and then translate the remaining parts into one). I hope I'll be able to publish anything soon.

I found some people here who speak my native language. "Amazing!" I thought, but then I saw they were online more than almost a year ago. Well, at least I know that some Europeans use this site as well (at least they used to).

This site reminds me of my first computer science lessons at my school: poorly optimized sites from the 2000s and early 2010s, incredibly old computers, and barely working computer mice... And it's not bad, you know, quite the contrary... Reminds me of times when after-school I, six or seven years old child, sat on a swing and swayed, thinking about my own.