The story in its original language can be found here
This is a metaphor that I don't want to forget. The story is truly bizarre and psychedelic. It was written foolishly and hastily, born to be edited and shortened. And I know that ceramic teapots don't have whistles, but I don't care about the teapot's accuracy in the story.
MR. EMERSET AND THE DARKNESS
Mr. Emerset poured himself hot water from the teapot decorated with Gzhel artwork. The teapot had a spout with chipped paint and a whistle at the end.
The radio broadcasted information about what was happening in the world and why. Mr. Emerset enjoyed the news as it made him feel connected to the whole world and the lives of other people around him.
He sat on a chair, observing the tea bag left in his cup as the hot water cooled down. Mr. Emerset was expecting someone to visit him today; usually, people came to see each other on Fridays after six. It was a suitable time for visitors, and it had already come. However, for some reason, no one knocked on the door.
Nervously, Mr. Emerset paced around the room, trying not to worry too much about the lack of knocks and calls. He looked out the window.
There, as always, was darkness.
It's worth noting that Mr. Emerset was fifty-five years old. He had a slight belly, balding behind his ears, and a focused and friendly face of a decent man. He had lived in the apartment he was assigned to for about forty years, only going out to work when the corridor's light appeared at the specified time. His apartment was also like the corridor, enclosed in a clear square of light.
Mr. Emerset had never spoken to anyone about this because he didn't know that it could and should be discussed. There was no law prohibiting talking about apartments; it just never occurred to him to discuss the boundaries of his living space.
Beyond the boundaries of the light, there was darkness. Sometimes, Mr. Emerset's living space would shrink to 16 or even 9 square meters, and he would curl up, but he would still pack up all his belongings and sit in the center, waiting for the apartment to return to its usual size.
Sooner or later, it would happen, and he would brew tea in the enamel teapot, pour hot water into the cup, and enjoy the taste of the drink when it cooled down.
Mr. Emerset was no different from others, and at the same time, he was radically different in ways that cannot always be expressed in words, just like all of us. Perhaps you don't really want to get to know him better?
I don't understand why. Mr. Emerset is a sensitive and intelligent conversationalist. You will feel at ease and in harmony with him, as if you are riding a well-oiled bicycle. But if your answer to my question was a protesting "why," then, well, we understand each other perfectly.
As usual, Mr. Emerset looked at the evening sunset, concealed by darkness. He sometimes heard about sunsets on the radio and secretly imagined one of them behind the curtain of darkness. Orange stripes spread across the sky. Pale reflections of the setting sun fell on his face and the glassed terraces of the surrounding buildings. It was a sight worthy of an artist's brush - one of those artists that the girl with the tinkling voice talked about in the "Art of a Genius" show on Mondays.
Mr. Emerset sighed with admiration for the sunset, scratching his head. When the apartment started to shrink again, he panicked. There were no walls in this apartment—only a clear division between light and darkness. He couldn't just lean on the middle of a wall and wait to find himself in the center of his living space.
Mr. Emerset rushed to the center of the illuminated square. His kitchen folded into packages and lined up along the border of the division, followed by the bathroom and the hallway. He became agitated, wiped his sweaty forehead, rubbed his eyebrows and temples. The square was shrinking. Darkness caught up with him. This time, everything was not as usual. There weren't even four square meters left. He stood on a tiny piece, 50x50 centimeters, and felt that he could hardly breathe, fearing one awkward movement, which... what? Mr. Emerset didn't know. His apartment had temporarily become a tiny box. A minute passed, then two more. Fear was replaced by panic, then anger. Three hours passed, and during this time, Mr. Emerset went from anxiety to fury about five times. Finally, the final stage arrived. It was indifference—the most dreadful and long-awaited feeling that can arise in the heart of a tormented person. He rolled his eyes, cursed loudly, and stepped over the division, moving towards the densest darkness.
Nothing happened. He was still alive.
The alarm clock ticked on the floor, and somewhere far away, the blue and white teapot waited in its rolled-up state. The darkness smelled of sunset.