Viktorija Makauskaite
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Soon after moving into this apartment, I began noticing the sounds of the street. It was a never-ending stream of cars, emergency vehicles, buses, motorcycles, and rows of trucks. Cars kept passing by, stopped at red lights, and then moved on again. Trucks rushed in opposite directions. On rainy mornings, heavy wheels would cut through the whisper of droplets, loudly splashing the puddles. Again and again, this dull roar of the engines gradually gave up to the rain and dragged into the distance.
Often, trucks stopped to rest here. They would slumber under our balcony with their motors running, ready to move any moment, yet procrastinating. Even when they stayed further away from our building, you could sense their big and hot volumes, the air radiating from afar. Monotonous lullabies of the engines invaded my dreams. In my sleep I breathed deeply. (Grainy monochrome mass).
Trucks transported the hope. It looked promising each time: sand, gravel, trees, ladders, steel beams, pile foundations. Trucks also hauled away the nothingness and refused stuff. They resembled homes and shrines - ropes, shovels, and brooms arranged neatly. Trucks varied in their shapes, colors, volumes, name plates.
We lived in this place since 2014, but it still feels like moving houses. Probably one day, we will hire a truck to carry us to a quieter street.
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