Cart

was winter, and I was heading to a nearby, larger city with no particular destination—just to kill the boredom. The bus was sloshing through melting snow. It was semi-dark outside. The sky was dark and thick, but not as ominous as before a storm. The scrawny branches of the trees blended perfectly with its hue, and the unsightly and neglected allotment gardens we were passing matched the tone perfectly. Everything shimmered with a lush gray (so lush, no less). It would have been a truly unsettling sight if I hadn't known that my anxiety was entirely unfounded.

I turned my head in the other direction—the images were no longer so coherent, as larger apartment blocks began to appear here and there. Suddenly, among them, a skeleton appeared, a structure that had likely haunted the area for years. It was an unfinished behemoth, designed as a typical utility building. However, for some rather unsettling reason, the construction wasn't completed, and the little building stood there, the wind howling between the bare, damp walls and numerous unfinished openings—the embryos of doors and windows.

As we passed it, I saw a certain hallucination on what seemed like the second floor. An absurd phenomenon, which, for obvious reasons, wasn't really there. Of course it wasn't. I was simply hallucinating. Everyone sometimes sees things that don't exist. There was nothing there but concrete, sheet metal, dust, and whistles. Whatever, I was angry at my mind for telling me such nonsense. Such nonsense, such nonsense, oh my God, such nonsense... I got off at the next stop and ran as fast as I could to the building.

Since I was on the same side of the road as him, looking up, I couldn't tell if I was crazy or if the world had gone mad. There was n't much room to cross either, as cars sped past in a single line, and I didn't have the patience to wait.

The behemoth was enclosed—probably while the construction was still underway—with a corrugated iron fence, but there was a huge hole in it. I didn't need to look for a way in, as the wall surface consisted of 40 percent entrances. It was quite bright inside for that time of day. On the walls were graffiti praising and criticizing football clubs. Vodka bottles and beer cans were scattered here and there on the floor, and in some places, melted plastic.

I climbed the stairs to the first floor. There were even fewer walls there, more light, but also colder because of it, and the wind blew wildly and furiously. Occasionally, a leaf would fly by—nobody knew where it had come from. I looked around—and there was nothing. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Stairs, a landing, a second floor. And there... Ah...

He sat at his desk, wearing glasses and a gray suit. The wind ruffled his close-cropped hair. He was leaning over a sheet of paper, furiously scribbling something. He was in profile. I began to circle, maintaining what I thought was a safe distance. He didn't seem to see me. When I found myself directly in front of the man, I stopped and stared. I stood there for a while, and he scribbled and scribbled. He scribbled with abandon and nervous movement.

It was a grotesque sight, considering the circumstances, but a scribbler like that didn't evoke emotions in me that would leave me speechless. So I asked.

"What are you doing here?" He stopped scribbling, froze. After a moment, his whole body began to tremble (and his eyes never left the paper). In this position, he spoke as if I had harassed him for the second time in a very short time. His tone was anxious and impatient.

"Can't you see I'm working?" he continued scribbling.

"What?" I asked.

"I-I-work," he articulated, even more agitated. "

You work? Here? It's pointless!"

He froze again, then resonated.

"It's not pointless!"

Somehow, confidence surged through me. I relaxed. I felt a certain superiority over this man and even felt the urge to tease him. I said,

"How is it not pointless? Pointless. You sit here in the cold, in the wind, in this skeleton, scribbling. Pointless. You work less efficiently because you probably have to tuck your paws under your butt every now and then to keep them from going numb. Pointless. You're exposing yourself to illness because the conditions are terrible, and you can barely see because there's no light. Pointless."

He trembled the entire time, his eyes drilling into the paper. It was no different when he spoke these words to me:

"It makes sense. This building... It was left unfinished. It would have stood—indeed—senseless. And because of its size, it would have been too glaring a nonsense. It was decided that I would work here. This is my workplace, ergo: it stands for me—stands for a specific purpose. Its senselessness transforms into sense—no worse than other senses.

" "But your work here is absurd in itself!" "

Possible, but that can also be questioned. Working in these conditions, when I could work successfully in others, has no sense in itself. Of course. But if it weren't for it, this wouldn't have happened. And if you give meaning to something else with your actions, you can be sure that it, too, is justified.

" "It's a vicious circle, get your act together, man!"

"Yes, it's a vicious circle. Like any other sense." From beginning to end, everything is hopelessly intertwined, and that's what it's all about. You know," he said, his tone as if he'd suddenly climbed above me and my thoughts, "this is called life..."

A sudden rage surged within me, and I felt that it was no longer air, concrete, or light that surrounded me, but only a uniform, disgusting substance called stagnation. What he said smacked of nihilism in some way. Deep down, I harbor very vivid and intense emotions towards this attitude, but whether it was revulsion or rather full appreciation, tinged with servility—I don't know, I don't know...

In a frenzy, I grabbed the man, grabbed his tailcoats, and dragged him from behind the desk. His resistance was strangely weak. It seemed to be in defense not of my own body, but of the remnants of my illusions. His face contorted in a grimace of terror. But the terror was merely the cumulative exhalation of years of torment, not a reaction to my sudden assault. I dragged him to the very edge of the floor—and there wasn't a wall, after all, only a supporting pillar here and there. "

Speak up!" It's not like you're saying! It can't be like this..." I jerked him to look down. "Tell him it's... It's..." "

What can I tell you, man?"

My madness was also desperation. Now I was trembling more than he was and I started crying.

"I'll throw you out! I'll throw you out if you don't say anything back! How...

" "It's not me who'll fall, it's you who'll fall into nonsense," he shouted at me now, but there was no fear in him, no anger. And then I saw how similar we were. And that the same madness went to sleep with us and woke up next to us every morning. "Let yourself be led on vicious circles, because only they are us. We are a vicious circle." We looked at each other's faces, and it was one face in two arrangements. I looked down once more, but I already knew I wouldn't throw him out. "Think about it: we've been doing this our whole lives." This is us, this is us: this rational absurdity, this fumbling around with our own inventions that makes us truly beyond all else—we go around in circles, but there's nothing else we can do. No one can cope, and neither can you!

I left him. He straightened his jacket. I lowered my head, and then, unasked, went to the desk. There was another chair there—I sat down.

So I began to work alongside... well, with a man, like me, going in vicious circles to push this cart forward. His name was the same as yours, reader. And I wrote, taking his example: "Push a herring or eight crates of figs into this boat. Push a herring or eight crates of figs into this boat..."