Today I went to the play “Anna Karenina” at the Vakhtangov Theater. Such an original, unusual performance - without a single word. The actors express all their feelings through expressive dances, the plot is revealed by successful scenography discoveries. I thought: but really, real feelings do not require words. Often words even get in the way, they only confuse what is already obvious. And this ever-repeating and returning plot with Anna speaks for itself. Love-hate-feel-scream-shine-humiliate... and ultimately, such a meaningless station and train... I noticed that in the play the actors Pain and confusion were expressed with tense postures, and love, passion, tenderness - with open waves of hands, smiles, high jumps. What if you watch yourself: you are talking to a person on the phone, and you lift your hands until bones crack. Then, when the phone is hung up, you sit as if petrified, looking in front of you with unseeing eyes, like a somnambulist. Well, why not the performance - very telling choreography. Being in a dark hall, and empathizing with the heroes of classical Russian literature, I suddenly caught myself thinking: what happiness it is - the absence of, as it were, beautiful and bright passions. They are already sick and tired. There is no need for beauty and a cocktail of emotions - peace, health is more valuable. But, but... Why can’t we survive if they don’t love us? Can't come to terms with this? Why, like crazy, do we keep trying to prove to ourselves and our loved one that yes, we can live without him. We can't! There will be no more another life after that filled with feelings, touches, smiles, passion. All that is called love. And why, exactly, according to whose instructions, should we kill this in ourselves? It's like leaving yourself, leaving all the best - dreams, dreams, hope - in the hands of another person. And arrive silently at the station, don’t buy a ticket, but just get up and wait for the train. But where can you go on it, when in essence it means leaving yourself, and no one is waiting at the final point of the route? This is deja vu with Anna Karenina, but as if with herself... *All coincidences in the article are random, real facts and events have been changed.© Bogdanova Anzhelika, 2020. All rights reserved. INSTGR_LINK Yandex Zen: Little Cactus WhatsAp, Viber, Telegram 89803928667© Quoting/copying of this article (or part of it) is permitted with the obligatory indication of the author and source of citation.