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Hello there. I am Gayratova Gulzoda. I am 21 years old. My childhood passed in the beautiful and ancient city of Bukhara, Uzbekistan. That’s why my interest in myth, history and writing dont leave me.
I am the author of several stories and short stories such as "Dilroz", "Land of Miracles", "Poems from the shores of nostalgia", and "Fans".
Currently I am a student of the Faculty of Philology of Bukhara State University. I think, tendency on writing will never leave me, my future dream is to create a work that can unite the people of the world under one image.
In my works, I try to illuminate human inner experiences and landscapes and create works that reach the hearts of people.
Thank you so much for your attention to my biography
Chamber. Night light. Silence. Pain. A strange space that stretches to the deep heart. You know, sometimes you don't realize you're dead when you're alive, but isn't it weird that you feel alive when you're dead? It's hard to feel the million tissues of your body being torn apart and destroyed, to feel your heart pounding between the wood and the consolation. My days were as miserable and hard as years. It was as if the clock had been taken away from me, and so was the air. Today, for some reason, I remembered the big river at the head of our village. When I was a child, my sister and I used to go to that valley. We played until the evening and took a bath. One day, because of the increase in water, for some reason I could not swim, and I began to drown. I could not breathe and was motionless. But I survived it. Even now I am drowning in imaginary water and I can't live without breath. In the face of the virus that is cutting me off from life, I am radiant and discolored as if the sun had been pulled from the sky. I have decided today. I made a deal with my heart. It rises again and again and then ends in a long line. And I will stretch the threads of my life, not only to put an end to everything, but also to get rid of the pain and virus that eats me day by day. I was thinking about that. I believed that death would remember me very soon, and bring me with it. When I think of death, for some reason I think of my grandfather's sunken saga. Maybe it's because I'm sure I'll sink into the ground just like him. The four walls of the room cut me off from all over the world, and I was searched all my life. What I researched not only seemed to be based on the theory of death right now, it didn't even seem to have been touched. It was as if my heart was freezing, and then I was burning again, and I could smell the warmth, the tingling, and the stench coming from me. At that moment, in my mind's eye, when I was a child (or clearly, my grandfather and I brought our seedlings from the market and plantet it in our yard, and now they are vehement), the poplars were burning one by one, as if I was being burned with a virus that I could not breathe. I have been burned. I have been burned for a long time. I was burned with a series of ghosts lined up around me, not hunters. They also said, “Let's go. That's enough for you to live, ”he said, urging me to break my covenant with life. I sank in the sea of Covid, like a boat sinking in the middle of a big ocean. One day . I don't remember which day. But I will never forget those eyes and that voice. He told me that I needed to breathe now, that he would turn off the respirator, and that if I didn't breathe, it would all be over. And I was still careless, convinced that I could not breathe, that the virus had devastated me, and that the corpses of the village were waiting for me, and that the living would never catch me, so that I would not stumble upon it. But then something like this happened. "Samina," I heard her name mixed with tears. The voice was familiar. The voice led me to my home. In the room, the woman was rocking the cradle with dreaming, and in the cradle I was sleeping with enjoying. Then I realized that my mother was also covid. He was also in pain. He was in the throes of pain, and he was in the throes of a virus. My mother's voice reminded me of her dreams. Beautiful dreams. In my mother's dreams, she led me to the altar, and in her dreams, the white dress I wore shone in the sunlight, and these lights faded into my dreams. Now I would start my daughter in the altar. Now, I was striving for a true breath from the air apparatus that had been taken from me, torn from me, for the power of a dream, a motherly dream. But my lungs were still weak. I needed to breathe for my mother, with a thousand struggles. I couldn't see his eyes, I could only feel the ceiling, and the ceiling reflected the dream, I was thirsty for the scent of dreams. Now spring was waiting for me behind the window, joining the birds and immersing my mother in God. For some reason, the crumpled pieces of paper in my room were full of songs about life and living. In the ward, still in a mask, the doctor struggled to breathe next to me, holding my trembling hands, leading me to the island of comfort, and giving my thirsty body a drink of hope. As I stared into his eyes, I could see the glittering tears in his eyes, which, too, were quarantined and tired of the virus, albeit weak, for me and countless patients like me, and these glittering tears made me strong and brave. From a distance, my mother's "Samina, breathe, fight!" His voice was faintly heard, joining the song of life, the dream.
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