IRINA

Now more than ever, I exist as I would if Chekhov had written me.

I’m young. I’m a white woman. And I’m trapped in a very nice house.

Now more than ever, I understand what it is to be devastatingly bored. My life takes place mostly in my own head. I dwell on memories of old loves and invent new ones because there’s not much else to do. I spend a lot of time in front of my window, watching my country crumble around me. I feel powerless to take any real action, but it’s all I want to do, so I watch in horror and meditate on ideals like patriotism, violence, and hope.  

I’m depressed and waiting for my life to start. I think that’s what it is to dream of Moscow.