This Is What Putin Dreams About Every Night

It's just some kind of bifurcation.

He always lived for the moment. That’s how you live your life—the way you set it up. That’s how he lived, setting things up and rearranging them, pushing forward, climbing his way up. He never thought that one day he might fall asleep and never wake up. To sleep, that is, constantly, without ever waking up. And your buddies will think you’ve been sleeping forever, so they’ll gently and carefully place you in an exorbitantly expensive little coffin, lacquered to the point of madness, with a hinged door, soft little pillows, locks, and other accessories. And after a beautiful funeral, they’ll gently send you off to a flawlessly functioning crematorium. But you’re asleep, and you don’t have the faintest idea that a simple mistake is taking place here. But it’s not too late—you just need to crack the coffin door open a bit and give that little skull a good whack, but gently and carefully so as not to break it. It’s a living soul, after all. But no, they didn’t hit it—those idiots. They’re rolling you straight into the fiery depths of hell. They’re dragging out the process. The lid is closing.

You’re in a coffin, and not just that—you’re in a furnace where hundreds of gas jets are turning on. Suddenly you wake up—first from the warmth, then from the exhausting heat, then from the unbearable scorching heat, then from the smoke inside, from the smell of the melted synthetic shroud, which begins to drip onto your face, onto your hands, your black jacket is almost red-hot; you want to take it off, but it sticks to your arms, your chest, your legs—it’s hot, very hot— you can’t breathe, move, or scream, because your vocal cords are paralyzed from shock and stress, and all you can do is wheeze and curse that asshole who shoved you into this coffin while you were asleep—and decided to give you a little extra heat in the crematorium while he was at it. And inside, it’s already light, and the planks and their substitutes are starting to burn fiercely, giving off a foul stench. You try to pry open the coffin lid with your hands, tearing at the melted lining with your fingers, pounding on it from below—even harder—to break free from this damn inferno. But the lid won’t budge, and the heat becomes unbearable—your hair catches fire, your skin blisters and bursts, instantly turning to a crust, the boots on your feet smolder and catch fire, you writhe inside the coffin to escape the suffocating heat, but it grows stronger and stronger. Tongues of flame pierce through the coffin’s walls. Your eyes are about to burst from the heat; your vision distorts in length and width, warps, and you can no longer see anything because you have no eyes—they’ve dried up—and when the flames reach you from all sides and literally roast you alive, that’s when your most agonizing and final scream bursts forth: A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a…

He dreams this every night.

It’s just some kind of bifurcation.

During the day, he’s a normal guy, doing what he loves, fighting the war in Ukraine successfully and skillfully, racking up victories, earning respect, and wanting to live like this for many, many years (about 150—no, more). He even founded his own institute dedicated to extending life. He really loves life.

True, it sends soldiers to the front to die for it, but it claims they’re dying for the Motherland. But it’s a geostrategist, after all, and that’s how geostrategists are supposed to frame things.

Now, practically every night, he’s afraid to fall asleep. He genuinely fears that if he falls asleep, he’ll slip into a lethargic slumber and his friends will whisk him off to someplace he doesn’t want to go. And he’s fully prepared for a very long, real, and fulfilling life—not a sleepy one. And he’s ready to live out this life of his with the strongest and most unique energy in the world—no, what am I saying—in the cosmos. This drive has been giving him no peace for 25 years straight. It’s gotten so deeply ingrained in him that now that he’s become president, he can’t help but pass it on to his dear and beloved people. It’s too heavy for him to bear alone.

And here, if lethargy were to suddenly strike…

Let’s name those who feared lethargy, one by one:

Nikolai Gogol, Consul Acilius, Thomas à Kempis, a certain Madame Bobin, Countess Mount-Edgcombe, Angelo Hayes, Neicy Perez, Jeanne Philomèle, Octavia Smith Hatcher… and other worthy souls.

And many were buried alive during epidemics. Women who had killed their husbands were also buried alive. And the Cossacks buried murderers alive alongside their victims. Life had its share of events. Aside from the commotion…

Gennady Klimov, kasparovru.com

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