I didn't escape

.

It was Monday, or to be honest, it was already Tuesday, because midnight had passed, and Monday seemed to me only a matter of "continuity." I settled in front of the television and started watching "Between Earth and Heaven" (I don't know if it's capitalized). The program is truly boring and indifferent, though its format holds great potential, so I try to follow it.

It works like this: each episode has a central theme. Viewers call in and complain about that central theme, or they call and don't complain about that central theme because they happen to complain about another topic, or they don't complain at all, but just gloat about their non-complaint (about the central theme), thus proving their superiority over those who do complain.

In the studio, meanwhile, sits the editor, who shows no shred of understanding of the problem, and whose only real strength is her deft handling of every platitude. Or a priest (always a different one, and lately a bombshell). Or some professor, psychoanalyst, or some other mental charlatan (no offense, of course, I respect your profession, gentlemen).

"What are we afraid of?" was the last topic.

So what? - Well, it's not hard to figure out that the conversation quickly turned to death. Death, death, death we fear – other people's, our own, universal... death, yes, death.

I'm afraid too.

I'm afraid.

I won't deny it, I'm afraid.

I'm afraid too.

And it was an evening when such thoughts were unnecessary. I needed something silly, light, lively, some salutary f**k – f**k, because I know – a romantic comedy? Kobuszewski's Cabaret? Monty Python? A Midsummer Night's Dream? Anything but a bit of limpness, ephemerality, non-binding exuberance!

And here, from the TV – death. A thought imposed on me from without, a thought drawn not by me, but no less pressing towards me because of it. Memento mori and vanitas vanitatum.

Suddenly—hosanna—the professor comes to the rescue! Death, death, but how tragic is emotional death, spiritual death while alive—he sings on this note! Oh, I like you, I respect you—spiritual death! What a sweet topic—it doesn't crush me, doesn't suffocate me, but attracts me! Let's talk then! Let's talk! Spiritual death! Spiritual death, this, this!

You can see—the professor was of a similar disposition, or perhaps mood, to me.

Damn it! I didn't catch it. They barely even hinted at something, and then they went on about that ultimate, final death we truly fear. Someone might ask – why didn't you switch? Well, because, as I said, I'm following. (Besides, it was in the countryside, where I only get two channels). Someone might ask – why do you want to deny the inevitability at all costs? Well, I don't deny it, I'm running away while I can. I don't wonder how Mature and Wise it is. I'm trying to get over it, even though I know I'm Don Quixote. Or even not. Simply put – this wasn't the evening for such a thing.

Death.

As a result, this episode has exhausted me beyond measure. The end. We'll meet in two weeks. We'll talk about children. Etc., etc.

How can I lie down now, when they've stuffed such poignant and tormenting thoughts into my head, when they've instilled in me such horror at bedtime! To distract my mind with something else, to displace that heavy burden with something airy and frivolous!

To read!

Oh, yes – bedtime reading.

So what… I've just finished Mr. Gene Brewer's K-PAX (a rather amusing little book, though nothing serious!) (Remember, this was in the countryside, where I don't have access to a wider range of works). So I pick up the book I'd chosen for my next reading and brought with me there to the cows and forests. Edgar Allan Poe's "Stories." A lost cause – I thought at first, but nothing – I pick it up and read. Maybe… maybe… maybe… No. Still death, not in the "professorly" spiritual version.

I put it aside. It was after three in the morning… the moon had fallen asleep, and you hadn't… oh well – I have to entertain my mind with something else! For good measure!

Once, the death of the goat – I open Gombrowicz's "Diary" (greetings to those who say I'm munching on it, I won't defend myself, because I don't feel like it – oh, see how un-Gombrowicz-esque this attitude is?).

I pick out fragments blindly. Or rather, I don't choose at all, I just read wherever my eyes fall. And there… the death of Lechoń… the death of Tuwim… the death of "Wiadomości"…

I slammed it shut!

Meanwhile, the clock had turned four, and it was impossible to deny that it was already Tuesday in full swing. Outside the window, almost dawn, ha, ha, rays of sunshine, birds, and there in my room – death.

Special thanks to Tiredness, who lulled me to sleep then.