An exceptionally warm January.

 

The temperature reached this year – in January, around 10-12 degrees Celsius. It was an anomaly, but snow fell in Texas. The winter was wet, warm, and gray. It was there, and it seemed like it wouldn't end, with constant repetition: Tomorrow, Wednesday at the latest. Snowfall is predicted for next week..., month..., year, millennium. The cats were going crazy, and since December, a bucket of yew had been sitting in my bathtub, intended for a centerpiece I hadn't made. And most interestingly, the yew had started putting out buds – new branches? You can't fool nature – and yet!

At that time, I was in my city, on my street, in my apartment, more Kamieńska Street than myself. "Being hurts," and unfortunately, I was then. It's that time in life when everyone tells you to go out and do something about yourself, and the only thing that comes to mind is suicide, but you don't have the courage. "That's your problem," that's what the priests say in the confessional here in Silesia. True, it's not their fault they became what they are, it's not their fault they're lifeless, that Cyrulka taught them that response. It's not her fault she's lifeless like them. That's their problem! I've been accused many times of being like my mother – honest, consistent, and, worst of all, brave enough to express my opinions like her. Maybe I'm like her, except I have a penis, not a vagina. Besides...

There were online psychological tests on a certain American website. After tallying up my points, I received my diagnosis – sociopathy. Nice. My dog ​​started panting and demanding a walk, and I simply put on my shoes and my favorite – only – sweatshirt. My yard was made of two apartment buildings and a row of garages. The whole thing formed a triangle with three exits – two at the top and one on the side. My dog ​​– a sociopath, like me, probably. He's afraid of loud noises, umbrellas, and horses. As the kids hadn't yet used up their arsenal of New Year's firecrackers, my dog ​​returned home after his date with physiology. I locked her in the house, locked everything else in it, and went for a walk. My friend's voice was still echoing in my mind, and she was also hurt by my existence, but for a different reason. A more feminine one. I headed towards the park—not the city one—the one known for its neglect, lack of benches, and dangerous "walkers." I wasn't concerned about my safety. I couldn't commit suicide myself, so I hoped someone would save me. One well-placed blow. I wouldn't disappoint my tormentor; I had something on me, about 200 złoty. This someone knew how to solve "My problem." I thought about my "internet" sociopathy. I found evidence that I was indeed a sociopath, and evidence that I wasn't...

On the one hand, I understood and saw the validity of "some" social norms. On the other hand, I felt suffocated in a larger group of people who were playing their roles in front of this miserable audience of my city.

The sky looked as if it had just split open—as if someone had lain in wait above it and, in one swift movement, silently sliced ​​it in two. My saviors, my tormentors, were nowhere to be seen or heard in the park. And I was already out of the mood for an easy death. I turned toward the exit that led to the allotment gardens and, through them, to the highway. I didn't want to rush for a car. I'd have paid someone to push me under one beforehand. But of course, not under a Fiat or something—preferably under a BMW. People with cars like that in Silesia would either avoid punishment for my death or deserve it without even hitting me. Such are the times. I reached the highway. I walked along its side toward the setting sun. No one passed me—no people. There was probably a soap opera on TV or something. I stepped in dog feces. It reminded me of something my grandmother always told me. That I was special because I was born in March 1980, the day Iwaszkiewicz died. I felt like some burned-out poet, suffocating, unable to express the slightest emotion to anyone. Anything. To myself. I felt like some great suicide – some Witkacy, Sted, Hemingway, or someone else. I was reaching home, crossing my triangular yard. I opened the door to my hallway. I climbed to the landing until I heard that someone was in my house – besides the dog and my mother. Guests – I decided not to return – not now, I couldn't bear any more questions like – when will I get married, what will I do after college…

Stepping out into the yard, a brilliant thought struck me. I already knew where I was going. I'd go where flowers grow on the stones. That's how I called a cemetery when I was little. I walked through the park – this time the city one, the safe one. It was nearing dusk, and I was alone again – as always. I mostly repeated all the poems I knew. All the ones that spoke of me in some way. As always, women stood in front of the cemetery with candles and flowers; this time there were fewer of them, and they were already packing their bags. Amid the labyrinth of rotting corpses buried in the ground, I found the grave of my childhood friend. He had died of leukemia. About three years ago, I still remember how wildly he admired Liza Minelli, especially when she sang "Cabaret." I crossed myself and turned to leave. When, right in front of me, a little girl appeared as if from nowhere. Like in that song: "One day you'll see a strange little girl looking back at you." That's what happened. She looked at me with an eerie, glassy gaze, over her blond fringe. Her hair was cut in the fashionable '80s style again today. She was wearing a jacket and some pants. My mother called her and left. And her gaze remained in me, questioning, "What's wrong with you? Why haven't you done it yet if you're thinking about it so much? Why do you need it if you know you won't? You don't have to do it, because it's not your death. Everyone has their own. And everyone has a right to it—just like me.

Something inside me broke—like in a poem—I fell to the ground and cried. And like in a poem, it suddenly fell silent, someone whispered a prayer. And I sobbed for myself, for them—we die in wooden boxes, for those who will come. I cried because I had met the Christ of the City in a little girl. I understood what I don't know for sure. That existence must hurt is the meaning of existence, from which there is no escape. I returned home. And I started writing it. I don't want to be someone great, I don't want to bear witness to my experiences, I haven't converted. And "being" still hurts. You ask, what's the point of all this? So that a strange little girl and other people know about each other. To be and realize that pain is immortal as long as we are like this.

I never met her again, I don't live differently – yet something inside me has changed forever. And that exceptionally warm January lingers within me to this day.