Now that the floors of the new global levels have already spread their material wings over Bulgaria, the time has come for new constructors to come to furnish and place the ceilings.
The managers who made all the important decisions, shaded and blessed by the people acting as top administration of the levels being created, are sleeking out of their roles, their decisions, and the results, leaving all the responsibility, by the letter of the law, to the players with first parts to find out about themselves that they were too busy to learn what they were in charge of, because of an overschedule in the proclamation, commencement, celebration, advertising, and outstanding, of the righteousness of many destructive to the old organization of the same logistics structures policies.
There are more changes: one is the transportation from the old warehouse to another old warehouse of the secret and classified files on the civil population that was treated during the period of socialism as subordinate military reserve.
The secret and classified files are charged with individual tragedies and success, but are of little importance to any but the different researchers. Much of the information on paper and film documents and the reports was cleared to make a file clean for a person to survive or socially develop, much was gathered from the surviving and the developing people as exacted or compulsory submission of feedback, much was collected in a paid job, much was invented to secretly subordinate a person of a different breed.
If someone said I am being ungrateful to history for keeping me alive, I would ask that person to look at the conditions history provided me with.
Of course, I have learned to alter many conditions and avail of many circumstances, and have reached this now time when, instead of looking with envy from down in a cellar lodging up to the lit windows of the multi-storey blocks, I am looking from the balcony of my own flat to the lights of the planes and the satellites. It is, however, as impossible to reach the new lights now as it was impossible in the nineteen-sixties to return to the house my family left to come over in search of any job.
In line with the cycles in social manipulation, I recall an old poem of mine:
A Tired Soul
Im clawing at my neck and chest
to catch my soul lest it speaks out
and says its tired, will escape
to some more friendly body quiet
I claw at it, but which hands right,
which one will keep it on a promise,
and which will give it as a fine
to someone who, to keep, has promised
V.P.T.
V.P.Toucheva 14.07.2008 Sofia, Bulgaria
