Memoirs of the Unborn. Twins

Memoirs of the Unborn. Twins

Third story

We are very much alike, and not just because we were born on the same day, at the same hour, with a one-minute difference.

We are not just twins.

We have absolutely no external differences.

Even our mom could never tell us apart. That's how we grew up.

Even when we turned one and started walking, no one could distinguish us: as if, without realizing it, as if conspiring, we would switch places, rolling from one end of the bed to the other. And then confusion would begin. Sometimes it led to very unpleasant situations, where one of us was fed twice, and the other remained hungry, until the wail of the deprived pierced the entire house, waking up everyone nearby at that moment.

Over time, we enjoyed this game. We already knew that we wouldn't go hungry, and so, with a mischievous sparkle in our eyes, we would exchange colorful ribbons.

And when the ribbon time passed, and we went to school, they tried to distinguish us by our headgear. They were of the same color and size, with equally shiny cockades. The inside of one of our headgears was marked with white chalk in the morning by our parents. But the end to this temporary distinction came very quickly—after all, scraping off the chalk from the walls of nearby houses or whitewashed trees was not a difficult task.

We were so engrossed in this game that we would substitute each other at the chalkboard during class, in exams, and even... on dates. Girls also confused us.

We were confused by the draft board, and later by the commanders in the army. When enrolling in college, teachers confused us. Then, like in school years, we were confused again during exams. And if one of us was better prepared than the other, he would draw two tickets, solve the problem twice, point out distant countries on the map, recite memorized poems, or describe medieval battles, conducting experiments in the chemistry lab.

Wives and children confused us, bosses at work confused us so much that one of us got reprimanded for both, while the other received double bonuses.

We laughed - to ourselves - even at mistresses. That way we could exchange them - for variety.

If we had died, they would have mixed us up even in the morgue. It was a mockery of fate itself.

It seemed that fate itself was playing with us and against us, teasing us.

It seemed that life itself confused us, and this confusion could continue for a lifetime.

But instead, it continues forever.

Like all possible variants of confusion, which have no end.

We constantly move from one situation to another, confusing everyone who thought they were confusing us.

It's a constant cycle, filled with millions of versions of us.

But it's not happening to us.

Because we were never really in any of these situations, just as they never happened to us.

We simply weren't there.

And couldn't have been.

Because we were never born. Like these memoirs.

Memoirs of the Unborn.

07.10.2014, Original (Russian) version.