FOG

Dawn was breaking. Late autumn was still negotiating with the remnants of summer for those few rays of stronger light. But now, a dense fog reigned supreme. I awoke suddenly, feeling no fatigue. My gaze wandered over familiar objects. There was no purpose in this gaze. With my eyes open, I saw everything, but I didn't look, wanting to see and understand something. The day slowly began to creep up on me, with its meanings and all its imagined importance. I like this moment of conscious unconsciousness. It has a certain carefreeness to it. It's safe and pleasant. Perhaps if I woke up with someone by my side, everything would be different? Would I still want it to be different?

A roll of butter and scalding my mouth, black coffee. My favorite breakfast. Sometimes it seems that if I changed the menu, I would irrevocably lose a vital part of myself. After all, every life is made up of fundamental habits and harmless quirks.

The fog clings stubbornly. I stare out the window and see nothing beyond it. The white, milky expanse stretches endlessly. I like this landscape. I identify with it. You're my sister, a misty glow, and you probably don't know anything about it. We have exactly the same nature. I remember as a child, I once got lost in such a fog with my parents. I stood with my back pressed to the wall of the building, listening fearlessly to the voices calling impatiently. At first, you could hear the surprise in them. There he was, and yet he wasn't. When the fact of my disappearance broke away from the framework of initial disbelief and became constituted by the actual absence of my person, a hint of impatience crept into the blindly searching voices. I still stood motionless.

"Andrzej!!! Aaandrzej!!! Haven't you seen the little fat boy? He was here just a moment ago. Aaaandrzej. Damn fog, you can't see a thing.

Wedged between a trash can and a gutter, I couldn't utter even a quiet, muffled squeal. I never explained my loss in that fog; now I claim I was never found again. I'm still lost.

Meanwhile, the bus is taking me somewhere, just like others, though perhaps even more specifically than me, even though it transports me, like all the other passengers, in the same way every day. I think of this ordinary event in many people's lives as something important, though perhaps one shouldn't dwell on such trivialities. However, I clearly perceive the ritual of boarding preceded by waiting, the ritual of riding with a face that's supposedly indifferent or simply morning, sleep-deprived.

There are only a few of us riding; everyone can afford the luxury of a seat. Conversations revolve around whether or not to hit children, or the murmur of lazy monosyllables. Silence, along with a centuries-old layer of dust, settles in the corners, frightened by the roar of the engine. Someone will say she's not even here, and they'll be sorely mistaken, because she can be everywhere and always. I feel her clearly, cowering in fear and huddle, but she's there.

Everyone here has their own world, and the real world tolerates us without much emotion. The surroundings change quickly. Someone gets in and looks around, as one does when getting on board, someone without regret, driven by a necessity of little interest to us, leaves this random community, careful of the high steps of the landing. I watch what's happening constantly, and suddenly I'm curious what the tall, blond man would say about me. His pale blue eyes, utterly expressionless, fixed permanently on the wide expanse of the window, seem to be gazing at something incredibly fascinating. The tall blond is a permanent fixture in the landscape, distinctive and unchanging, immobile. He's locked in his place, in a single position dominated by the precision with which his head maintains a constant distance from the glass. So if I were to ask him a question about me—though everyone knows such questions aren't asked because there's no reason for them—would he answer or just shrug? I'd bet he never even glanced at me, even though he has the opportunity every day, while I can stare at him as much as I want. If he were to say anything, it would be that he doesn't know me and has never seen me before. And that would be the honestest truth. Honest as few of the most banal truths we profess, because he can see nothing beyond the reflection of a slender, brunette woman constantly adjusting her perfectly styled hair. Images, indeed, pass before his eyes, just as they pass before the open eyes of a blind man. The blond man, getting out, bows his head low and hunches in a strange way, burying it even deeper into his narrow, slender shoulders, and his unnaturally withered figure seems like a pathetically distorted paragraph. His shattered gaze lingers timidly on the toes of his shoes, yet he could have casually glanced at her openly. For that brief moment, she could have become more real to him than a reflection in the window.

In my opinion, the brunette knows nothing of a secret admirer. She doesn't expect her movements, gestures, and entire figure to be completely absorbed by someone's gaze. Aware of her beauty, whose true asset lies in her youth, for with the passing of the years, a subtle hint of which can already be seen, she will most likely gain weight around the hips, she is immersed in the constant performance of thousands of small movements, the overwhelming majority of which have nothing to do with practicality, but merely reinforce her belief that everything in her intricately constructed appearance is in its proper place. The tall blond detects a certain artistry and harmony in this bustle, an elusive charm that, to me, is a fruitless pantomime, but to him, the height of grace and charm.

The fog still persists, perhaps even thickening even more, as my thoughts thicken. I stood up, passed first the blond man, then his muse, two grandmothers rushing to their grandchildren to take over their care while their parents struggled with life and fought for a better tomorrow, and froze on the landing. The bus slowed, the doors opened with a familiar hiss, I took three steps, and I was gone again.

This time, no one would look for me, unless I found my way through all this alone.