AN OUTLINE OF MATURING

I don't know whether to tell you my name or who I am? I call myself

Odiosum. Others simply call me Bartek. I hate that name.

Can you like something you had no control over? Why isn't every

child given a single nickname after birth: "human"? Not everyone deserves it? Being one is like a morning

in a lilac-filled glade—the awe of nature overshadows the reason for a night spent sleeping under the stars

. A few years after birth, a boy or girl can call themselves whatever they like,

and then change it a hundred thousand times. After all, it's just a name. And so everyone will inherit

a nickname, becoming a Green Smurf, a Narrow-Eyed Coolie, or the

eternally cursed Ugly One. That's the way of things. Every painting in the gallery of human souls evokes

certain associations; it's repulsive, beautiful, or even worse—completely expressionless.

Standing before such a work, behind the back of a "great" critic who voices his opinion aloud

, we justify ourselves by saying that his train of thought is only coincidentally congruent with ours.

I live in a big city, where there's everything an intellectual needs:

nineteen excellent high schools, enormous libraries, modern cinemas, and one

dingy brothel with babes with exceptionally arousing, sagging skin. I go to

one of those educational institutions where teachers don't walk the halls but

hover a few dozen centimeters above the floor. Their lectures are very moving and

make you realize this and that. They're always happy to help, especially for a small fee. But

despite everything, school is a very interesting place. You can meet people, half-humans, and

imitations. How can you tell an imitation from a human? It's simple – the clone blinks too often. It has to

make up for the lack of tears somehow. Half-humans are a more perfect product. They cry, of course, but they have no

sense of time and place. The funniest thing is their motto: "I always say what I think and

I'm honest." Saying what you think is very trendy, and half-brains must be

the cream of the crop. They are incredibly eager to help, they never refuse,

you never know when you might be useful. Someone might ask: Well, yes, but where do THEY

come from and what are they for anyway??? They are produced by the general public, and their goal is

to destroy such unnecessary human activities as, for example, admiring the stars at night, looking for the

moonlight on the face of the woman you love. We know that the Sun is necessary for us to live, new

A generation of people has a new star that gives them a boost of life-giving energy. Take a

good look at her; she's right in your pocket...

My wooden, red-brown cottage is situated in a picturesque area. It's surrounded by

a dense, coniferous forest. In summer and autumn, it's incredibly rich in mushrooms,

especially Toczki. This is probably due to the large number of sheep grazing here.

I enjoy hiking along forest paths trampled by animals. You can see the

same places from a different perspective. During one such trip, I saw her for the

first time. It must have been early May, as the grass was already up to my calves. She stood behind

a wild rose bush and looked me straight in the eye. My Geiste. Only she knows how

she feels. In her gaze, I saw the fear of all my secrets.

When I was little, my parents became friends with the Red family. Their only child, their son

Wojciech, was my age. We quickly found common ground, and we swapped his name

for a practical nickname – Skrzydlaty (Winged One). Perhaps because he used to eat his own robins as a kid, or perhaps for

another reason. Growing up together permanently bonded us. I needed his clear-headed

perspective on the world. I'll never forget one incident from our childhood. One

Saturday (or was it Sunday?) we were playing in the sandbox. Me, Skrzydlaty, a fat boy named Robert, and a few other kids. My friend had been painstakingly trying to shape the sand with his own hands

for a while now , with rather poor results.

Then

chubby Robert approached, cleared his throat, adjusted his round glasses resting on his

nose, and said, "You can't do that! Really nice, decent shapes

can only be created with a mold!" He handed Wojtek a red, pentagonal piece

of plastic. A flicker of uncertainty danced in the Winged One's eyes. After a moment, he took the mold in

his hand and thanked him through gritted teeth for the advice. I turned around, returning to my previous

task, which was tormenting ants, when suddenly I heard the sound of a bone crunching.

Robert was lying on the ground, tears in his eyes and sand in his mouth. A

dark-skinned boy stood over him, with dark marks under his eyes that made him look like a rugby player.

He looked down at the plump man and said, "You know what, dick? Don't bullshit! Get the hell out of here with

your molds." It was Adolf Snakowski, one of the most popular people at my

school. I simply called him Dragon. Adolf's constant companion was the gray

tongue of cigarette smoke flowing from his mouth. He smoked cigarette after cigarette, no matter

What kind: L&M, Marlboro, or Fajranty? Why did a guy like him hang out with me? A dragon

is like a can of beer; you reach for it when you want to relax, sometimes it finds you and

always sits in its place on the shelf. It's like Heineken to a 14-year-old – forbidden,

curious, and treacherous. Adolf was always there when I reached for a chilled hop drink.

Part 2.

It's hard to deal with your inner voice, with the thoughts that just keep pouring

out. Mistakes made in silence usually don't work out for the best. Inner peace

is brought, surprisingly, by a constant and uninterrupted struggle to block the flow of these thoughts. I didn't learn

this from my grandmother's stories, nor did I wake up with this experience on a Tuesday at

8:32. I learned it firsthand, that is, I went through the same path

every mistake should. I'm searching for my own SELF. I'm looking for it, not waiting for a gift in

the form of an inheritance from my mother, father, or anyone else.

Sleep, as rest and inspiration, accompanied me in virtually every lesson. Polish, math

, history, chemistry – for me, the only difference was the surface on which I rested my tired

head. Once, in my heady and foolish youth, while listening to a lecture

by a Polish teacher, I impulsively attempted conversion. The lesson was a polemic about

life from behind an alcoholic haze. I sat in the second-to-last desk, picking at

an eraser with a pencil, and listening to Grzegorz Kłusiec's speech.

"Alcohol, as a typical stimulant, has effectively disrupted the harmony so

essential to the creation of works that are accurate both grammatically and in terms of message.

The point-of-view, shifting the punchline, has to hit the mark perfectly; there's no need

to detour. All these creators, energized by intoxicants, are deceiving not

only themselves, not only us; they are also deceiving the WORD. This WORD remembers

the pyramids and Troy. Slicing through the taste of Moria, dodging

Gerald of Rivia's sword at the last moment, finally perching like a canary on the shoulder of a young boy

with a strange expression in his eyes. It's no longer girlishly innocent, it's filthy, violated

. The world doesn't want such a word – it wants sweet, unreal lines, well-arranged periods, apostrophes

separating us from the sadness of that day."

I laughed. Quietly, but contemptuously and defiantly. Professor

Mordaszyńska overheard this. "Does a genius like Mr. XXX have a different opinion? But please

share your own opinion with us. We absolutely insist!"

I cursed silently, but in a moment of sudden, naive faith that they would understand, I attempted

this statement:

"It has been scientifically proven that throughout our lives we use a maximum of thirty percent of our brains' capacity. Anomalies such as a boy with a dog's head, a girl with a penis, an old lady with a sexy mustache

often occur in our world (here and there...). So, has anyone already learned the secrets, knows the afterlife, seen the TRUTH , because maybe our existence is only an existence within an existence? Maybe after a certain dose of alcohol, marijuana , LSD, we will wake up for a moment and for a moment we will feel a headache, a hangover, but in reality. The nervous system will transmit the information about the impact of a baseball bat made of sun rays. One of us may then say, "Yes! I know! I have to leave." And leaves. The words written by a drunk person give a real perspective. Pure and clear . Without our own experiences, we will not be able to decipher these "Words, if we don't open a locked door without a key. It's like Morse code. Written words don't stay words. They turn into emotions, and these are both immortal and unique. Always something new, like a Kinder Surprise. Emotions can't be distorted, they can only be misinterpreted. So let's drink and drink as much as our bodies and pockets allow." I squinted slightly as I spoke, so I couldn't see the class and professor's reactions. When I finished, everyone was looking at me. I saw many things in their gazes: fear, aggression, or at best, incomprehension. Only Mariusz B. sat with his back to me. He was doing what he always did and what he did best: rolling a joint for a break. It was his life's passion, and he didn't care about the rest. I used to wonder if he had plans for the future. I know he used to want to be a plumber; he liked messing around in pipes and unclogging clogged drains. He's less inclined to pursue this now, but apparently he sometimes uses his experience from years ago. He makes incredible bongs, inventive structures made of glass laboratory vessels connected by rubber tubes. Maybe one day he'll start a company producing this kind of thing. My gaze landed on the Polish teacher. She was genuinely furious. Saliva formed at the corners of her mouth. "Tomorrow you'll bring your parents to school. Your behavior is outrageous and immoral! I'm going to the principal to discuss your situation. You'll need to see a psychologist. Both yours and mine."

I never tried to convert or change anyone again. That was the last time. Don't think

I didn't discuss such topics later. Of course I did, with Smok and Skrzydlaty.

However, my conversations with them were always similar. They had very strongly ingrained

values ​​and beliefs, strangely enough, completely contradictory. Adolf smoked, drank, and God knows

what else he did—Wojtek didn't even drink coffee, Smok had long since lost all

his inhibitions, and Skrzydlaty had never been to an all-night party. One loved "The X-Files

," the other "Dawson's Creek." This state of affairs meant that almost every discussion we

had ended in an argument. Despite this, I loved our walks through the city streets and our conversations

, our long debates on various topics. We talked about humanity as a constantly growing organism that

will eventually burst, about how evolution will unfold, whether Lepper will trade his pitchfork for an AK-47 after

Poland joins the European Union, about Małgosia wearing pants that are too short (

probably on purpose) and showing her pink thong. In short, about everything. There was

only one topic we didn't discuss. I once asked them about the afterlife, faith,

God, Satan, and so on. They looked at me so angrily that I never dared

to raise the subject again. I remember that whenever we walked along the sidewalks, people

would look at me strangely—never at them, always at me. I would obsessively wipe

my lips and cheeks, and fix my hair. I hoped I was scratched, dirty, or

had food residue on my face. Usually, there was nothing there.

Strong emotions accompanied one discussion. It was a stroll down the street of "

Thoughts of Eternal Sleep".

- In the second half, Kucharski finally started running, looking for space to

shoot, passing better. Sokołowski's cross and it was 1-0. Cezary headed

it nicely. Overall, it wasn't such a bad match - said Adolf.

- Not enough! This match was very good. In the first half, they had a completely different task to

perform. Kucharski deliberately saved himself for the second half, and then he did what

he had to do. They prepared for this match technically perfectly. It's simply a beautiful

reflection of long training sessions - replied Wojtek.

- I wouldn't exaggerate! They were lucky, that's all, no training. And what do you think about it? - asked

me Smok.

- And I would like to change something in my life. I would like to show what others don't see

or don't want to see. I would like to change others' way of thinking, so that they die and are reborn.

They shed their skins, put on new ones. They forgot their old and foolish prejudices, exchanging

them for a complete absence of negative thoughts. Pure and unsullied souls have known the paradise that awaits

us here, because fulfillment lives beside us, but we don't notice it. That's what I think.

"You'll never succeed. They won't listen to you. Haven't you noticed yet? You are merely

a riverbed, a river called life. You know its taste, its composition, its color, but

you have absolutely no influence on it. It flows through you, soaks in, and disappears. And you disappear

with it.

I stopped, bowed my head, and wept. The winged one leaned over and put his arm around me,

but said nothing. Both he and I knew the Dragon was right. And Adolf stood and laughed.

No one in the world knew life better than he did. And although no untrue word ever fell from his lips,

he was merely an apparition. He never lied because he himself was one big,

almost perfect lie.

Part 3

The long-awaited trip to the mountains was approaching inexorably. I was a little afraid of it; it wouldn't

live up to my expectations, it would pass too quickly, and I'd regret it later. However, I knew

I could use a few days of relaxation in nature. One thing saddened me. For

the next two weeks, I wouldn't see my beloved, my Geiste. But deep down,

I thought that if she really was my only love, something extraordinary would happen

.

The last day in my city was filled with packing, preparations, cooking

eggs, and shopping. Of course, I wasn't going to the mountains alone. My mother, father, and a couple

of inseparable friends were going. You're probably wondering why I haven't mentioned

my parents yet. Problems with "older people" are, after all, every teenager's daily bread.

But I won't criticize them, I won't praise them. I'll do the most terrible thing to them.

I'll give the whole topic a wide berth.

As I stood on the platform with a full backpack and looked at the place I was leaving

, I knew something was ending, this city would never wake up like it did today, it would fall asleep inside

me and I with it. Train travel has always been exciting for me; my parents were asleep

, but I couldn't. There's life outside the window! I'm driving through an unfamiliar city, searching for

people, drug addicts begging, couples in love, familiar faces. I'm looking at a huge

anthill, one huge organism that delights and terrifies. Three hours later, we arrived

. Krynica hadn't changed much since our last visit. It still operated on

The charm of this place captivated me. We stayed with a friend of mine, Mr. Waldemar Puntin.

He rented us rooms at a promotional price. My parents lived in one, and I, Smok, and Skrzydlaty lived in the other

.

I wandered around the beautiful streets with my friends, talking a lot.

I began to feel a certain rivalry between Wojtek and Adolf again. Comparing their

personalities, it wouldn't be surprising, but it seemed to me that they were fighting for me. For my movement in

either direction, because I couldn't be on the border. I was very sad;

I wanted to postpone this moment as long as possible. Skrzydlaty wanted to teach me

selflessness, purity, love, but also excessive naivety. Smok showed me a life

full of charm, a happy one. A life to which most young people are accustomed. But this

isn't existence; it's a constant struggle. Between these two worlds was Geiste. She was something

separate, yet something that united them. They were both afraid of her like the plague.

On the third day, I woke up with a strange feeling. I really wanted to run.

I quietly slipped out of the room, put on my shoes and a sweatshirt. It was early in the morning, and on my way out,

I looked at my watch. It was twenty to six. There was no one on the streets. I loved

moments like these; I was touched by thoughts of a huge atomic explosion. It destroyed

everyone, and only I survived. But why did it spare me? After all,

I'm just a dancing, singing remnant of this world.

The idea for the route was simple: I'd run up Jaworzyna Mountain, rest for a moment, and take

the cable car back down. Initially, I was doing very well. A steady, not too fast pace. A calm,

balanced, and harmonious rhythm. The forest, the trees, every bush is a part of me. I feel it

with every inhale and exhale; I run in sync with my surroundings. The problems began

about halfway up. The slope became increasingly steeper, and with each subsequent step I felt

pain in my joints. It was a mad dash across a pudding-like mass. My feet sank into

the ground; I remembered the Dragon's smile as he handed me a pack of cigarettes. I lit it and

felt the most uneasy feeling of freedom in the world. I remembered

all those glass pipes. I lit it and felt an unbridled lack of responsibility. Now

we were alone: ​​me and the Mountain. I had to overcome it; it was a make or break situation for me.

I kept running, my legs brushing against protruding roots and stones. I felt

unpleasant, cold shivers on my hands. I could already see the summit, the final station of the mountain railway.

White spots appeared before my eyes, I saw everything as if through a fog.

The last few meters couldn't stop me. I ran out and collapsed to the ground, fainting.

I slowly opened my eyes. Someone was standing over me. It was a girl. The image was coming into focus.

It was her, my beloved.

"Are you okay?" she said.

"Where did you come from?

" "We're meant for each other, you could run to the end of the world, and I'll still

find you.

" "But are you sure I'm for you and you're only for me? After all, I'm

only...

" "An apple that was prematurely knocked down by a sudden gust of wind and

brutally brought to earth.

" I was stunned. She knew me better than I thought. I smiled at her as

sincerely as I could. I didn't have to pretend anymore. I sat down on the ground and looked around

. It was already gray, so it must have been after 5 p.m. The sun was splashing its

rays on the treetops. Geiste sat down next to me, and I slowly took her hand.

She looked at me and smiled warmly. Looking at her face, I thought

I no longer needed bread, water, or Snickers. I could live on that

sight for the rest of my life. Her hands were wonderful to the touch, delicate, soft, yet confident and determined.

We sat there and didn't say a word; she knew me, and I knew her. I didn't have to

search for adjectives for her appearance, because everything had already been said.

I found the answer to every question in the glow of her eyes. I leaned my head toward her, lightly

brushing my lips against hers. The heat of tension and love radiated from them.

"I know now that days are only for this..." I hummed.

We stood up and snuggled against her. Lightly humming a song, we danced our slow dance.

I inhaled deeply the scent of her hair. I lowered my head and smelled

the most wonderful scent in the world, a mixture of perfume and a burning body. I held her

even tighter, gently touching her ear with my tongue. I felt shivers down her spine,

I knew she was smiling.

- "To be there, always where you are..."

I heard birds singing, the smell of resin was in the air. Darkness was slowly falling.

The hardest-easiest day of my life was ending. As if to say goodnight, I kissed

Geiste on the neck...

PART 4

​​"Yesterday in Krynica Górska at about 6 p.m. a terrible accident occurred. A young, 17-year

-old boy jumped off a metal, thirty-meter-high gondola lift pole. "

I had already found what I wanted. Looking down, I felt no fear...

" On August 15, at about 6 a.m., a certain Bartek Nikto left Mr.

Waldemar Puntin, where he was vacationing with his parents. On the way, he was seen by

the owner of a kiosk on 3 Maja Street.

"The boy looked a bit strange; he wasn't wearing any pants, just a sweatshirt and shoes. When I

told him to go home, because the mornings here aren't the warmest, and some

Cossacks can freeze their balls off," he didn't respond. He headed towards Czarny

Potok.

- A few other people saw the boy running without pants.

What was the point of all this? To make an effort... I can't change anything now...

"At half past six, the sight of Bartek caught the eye of a gondola lift employee.

- Ladies, they often run here. Once, ladies, a woman even ran here without a bra. What

fun my friends and I had, ladies! I thought his shorts were so short...

The boy headed towards Jaworzyna. He followed the ski slope route. "

I lost a long time ago, I lost even in my mother's womb. But my beloved

will comfort me...

"At five minutes past seven, he climbed one of the steel poles of the cable car structure.

A couple of tourists returning from Jaworzyna saw him. The boy did not respond to requests to come

down. In front of the two people, he threw himself down..."

I wasn't the slightest bit afraid of jumping, I wasn't afraid of falling. It was as simple to me as what

I had for breakfast yesterday. Cornflakes, of course. As always...

How wonderful it is to fly! I could fly! The wind was tearing through my fingers....

Was there something in this world that...? But Geiste...

"Without a single scream, he fell thirty meters, impaling his back on a protruding

root. He died instantly. Bartek's mother stated that her son had always had

mental problems. He was very withdrawn, and was often seen talking to himself

.

And now for some other information. Let's forget about Bartek, he's already dead.

Fuel prices have gone up again, and unemployment in Małopolska is reaching unimaginable levels.