Angel - Woman of My Life

As if in a dream, I breathe and move. I automatically perform actions: leaving the house, closing the door, crossing the street... Who are you that has managed to take me over to this point? That in the middle of the night I can't sleep because my thoughts scream your name too loudly to close my eyes and drift off.

It doesn't matter. I don't need to sleep. Just as I don't need to eat, drink, or breathe. You are enough for me to live. Is it any wonder that I die away from you? Only you can breathe into me. The breath I so desperately need now.

The streets are wet with rain, which has now turned into a gentle drizzle, and isolated figures scurry home as fast as they can. There's no one at the bus stop. Only the passing cars break the silence. I decide I can't stand waiting here for the bus. I have to move, I have to go for that air, because standing still will kill me.

It's pointless, reason tells me. It's the middle of the night, your house is really far away, I don't know the way, I've never walked there before, it's about to start raining. And most importantly – why am I going there? A figure outside the house? That's considered mental illness.

For air, I whisper. I can't hold my breath any longer, or I'll die. I have to open my mouth and take in as much of it as I can. To have the strength to return and endure the coming days.

I reach the bridge, and this is where my journey begins. A real one, not the one I'd take with my finger across the map of Wrocław, undertaken in the evenings, when thinking about wanting to be with you was reflected in plotting my route on the map, in slowly tracing each street I'd have to pass, from my house to yours. I think about you. About what you were doing, how time passed at your place this evening, what occupied your thoughts and hands. The big house. The emptiness. And you – filling it perfectly. Nothing more is needed. The air is still. The clatter of footsteps on the stairs. Someone is turning on the water in the kitchen. I want to be there so badly. I want to sneak into your house in the middle of the night. Let it be a downpour, let it be a storm – no one will hear my footsteps. I just want to sit and watch you sleep. How evenly you breathe. Sit there for an hour, two, all night. All your life. Then wander through your house. Look at your photo album. Photos of a life I'll never be a part of. Inhale the scent of that life.

What have you done to me?

I used to breathe freely. I used to laugh and do stupid things. Now I feel like a wounded animal that needs to be cared for or it will die. And nothing but you matters to me anymore. Every moment you're not with me or with someone else, I feel exactly the same. Like I'm climbing a gigantic skyscraper. Taller than "pencil and crayon," taller than Poltegor. I attempt to climb to the next floor, knowing I could fall and hurt myself. However, if you let me reach the very top, I'm prepared to kill myself falling. Just let me. I'm tired of building a house of cards in the middle of a raging storm. I'm tired of seeing each floor, so painstakingly built, crumble in an instant. I want to listen to you, I want you to tell me everything, but when I hear you making plans to go to the movies with someone else, when I learn you're spending another weekend with friends in the mountains, I hear the sound of cards falling again.

I round the corner leading to school. The same school where, on September 1, 2000, I met an Angel. An Angel with divine power that changed my life. I didn't discover you were an Angel right away. It took time, almost two years. And I don't know exactly when I realized it was you. Maybe it was when you asked if my dog ​​bit, or maybe when you thanked me for the poster I brought you. We fall in love with the details. When I glimpsed that fragment of divinity, nothing was the same. It was like being born again. After 18 years, once again. That's when you possessed me, completely took over. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you, and you have no idea. But from that miraculous moment on, I knew I would eventually lose you, and everything we did together would be just another stop on the road to the inevitable end.

I reach a completely empty intersection. Only the shifting lights give the impression of someone's presence here, but there's no one. Well, except for two people. One is me. And you are the other – always with me, because my thoughts never leave you. It's true, I want to protect you from all the evil in this world, even though I know you can handle it on your own. Sometimes I even want someone to shake you, to hurt you, so I can save you. But on the other hand, I want you to go through life never once knowing suffering. The strongest person I know. A Victorian riddle box – one opens, and there's another, and another, and another... I will never be able to know you completely – divinity is eternally difficult to grasp.

It's cold, and a heavier rain begins to fall. I zip up my fleece and instinctively quicken my pace. This is how people walk, seeking shelter from the weather at home. I'm walking in the complete opposite direction. It's almost one o'clock, it's cold, but I couldn't turn back now. I know I'm hungry, I'm cold, but the best part is that none of this matters to me. It's as if my basic needs have ceased to exist. It's as if I were in a completely different world.

Looking around, hearing nothing and seeing no one, I start laughing at myself. Who in their right mind would walk such a long, truly serious distance at this hour, only to turn back. I close my eyes, and you appear again—and everything becomes clear. The journey becomes a pilgrimage to the promised land.

I know it makes no sense—mortals can't be with angels, that's it, but people don't want everything to make sense. I certainly do. If I wanted to sort everything out, you would have to disappear. You're turning my world upside down, and I don't want to put its shattered pieces back together.

I don't know what's happening anymore. From the moment this all began, I stopped understanding anything. This is further proof that you're an Angel, and I was only born when I understood that. You touched my lips and took away my memory. For a year and a half, I haven't truly lived—except for you. I know it's impossible, and I simply wander through each day, isolating myself more and more.

I'm like a dog chasing its master, begging for a moment of attention. And now, as I pass the entrance to the parking lot, I know I'll see you again soon. My heart will beat five times faster, my legs will buckle, my hands will start to tremble. My soul screams, calling out your name over and over again. If only my lips could call it out just once...

The wind picks up, and I know I'm going to catch a cold. Suddenly, a bus passes me. I smile and look at him – he'll be there faster than me. But that doesn't matter. Honestly, I could go on like this all night. There's no point in rushing it. It won't escape. And I won't escape. I can try, sure, but I'll only tire myself out. I'm caught in a web. I've grabbed onto your wings, and somehow, even if I wanted to, I can't let go. Because I caught them mid-flight, and if I let go, I'll kill myself.

I walk for a really long time. I reach the tram depot, and that's halfway there. Another mile, and I'll be where I want to be, where I need to be. I still have your image before me, your smiling face, your focused face, your angry face... Human and angelic. Christ, how beautiful you are. The lights are on in a tram, and someone is sitting with their head against the window. My legs ache terribly, and I want to sit down, but for some reason, this desire to rest gives me new strength. Strength to walk. Strength to fight. I once watched the movie "Two Mothers" – the conflict between the adoptive mother and the biological mother. They could have gone to court, they could have won the right to take their loved ones home. I can't fight for you in court. How unfair it is. I would care for you, carry you in my arms. No one will ever love you like that. I think about you as I fall asleep and wake up, while eating and brushing my teeth, watching TV, reading books, walking, washing dishes, and shopping, at the table, while meeting friends, during classes, breaks, tests, and while waiting for the tram. Not a day goes by that I don't think about you. There's nothing that distracts me from you. How much I've missed these past months because all I could think about was you...

I pass a newsstand, and then they appear. Three guys.

"Hey," one of them says. "Do you have any change?"

I stop, but the gravity of the situation doesn't register. I should be scared. What chance do I have with three older men? There's no one around to help me. I look at them, but I can't really see them. There's me, there's a road leading to your house. Is there anything more? There isn't.

And at that moment, I don't know why, but I start laughing. Hysterically. Like a complete lunatic. It's like I've lost my mind. I double over and laugh, laughing, breaking the silence. It's the middle of the night, it's raining, it's cold, and instead of being home and sleeping, I'm standing in the middle of the sidewalk, facing three drunk, teasing men, laughing my ass off. They look at each other, take a step towards me. They don't know what's going on. They're starting to wonder if they're dealing with a lunatic.

"What's so funny?" one of them finally says, aggression palpable in his voice.

I can't find the words to explain it. I lift my head and look into their eyes, still laughing.

"I have to..." I choke out. "I have to tell a girl I love her..." Another bout of laughter doubles me over again.

One of the men takes another step forward and clenches his fists.

"Shut up, or you'll be telling her in sign language," he warns.

I can't stop. Suddenly I realize that the drunken stranger is the first person I've managed to utter these words to. The other two wave and walk away, back the way they came. The third looks at me for a moment, then follows his friends. I'm alone again, and as soon as I realize they're gone, I continue my journey.

I know I'd be willing to accept any terms, just to be near you. Maybe someday you'll understand how much you meant to me. Maybe you'll even thank me in some way for always being there for you, always on your side, for always being there for you. Maybe someday you'll sign Varius Manx's "Quicksand"...

Another hour passes, and I reach a place where a small road branches off the main street. Here, the silence is even more pronounced, and the night darker. Someone once told me that once a year, there's a night when the stars fall, and wishes made at such a moment come true. I wonder if this might be the night, but the sky is too cloudy to see anything but impenetrable blackness.

I can already hear your breathing in the distance. You have no problem with it. You take in another gulp of air and don't even think about it. For me, each subsequent one is a fight for survival, and I don't know how much longer I can endure this.

I stop before the last street leading to your house. I open my mouth and take a deep, long breath. I inhale and feel that my chest is no longer constricted. My stomach begins to tighten. What am I doing here, I wonder. I stop knowing what I want. I want this little thing to come true so badly, this seemingly nothing thing I've secretly dreamed of, but there's one damn BUT standing in the way, one that can't be abandoned. I wanted to come here, and now I have doubts. Maybe there are things in the world that should remain as they are, unchanged. Why strip away the veneer of mystery? Why make someone who fascinates and intimidates me, who has always been a great enigma to me, into someone I can recognize? I've been coping without her closeness for so long. Would it be worthwhile for the walls to disappear, the bars to fall? Returning to reality will be even more difficult after this. So perhaps it's worth considering. If suffering is to surpass the joy of love, then perhaps it's better to turn back. But sometimes it's sweet pain, and love isn't mathematics. I know I can come back here tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, next week, but I'm afraid you'll be gone. I know how fleeting moments cling to you, and I'm afraid that because of my doubts, the joy that accompanied me on the journey to this place will vanish. Everything is delicate, like a spider's thread that I somehow managed to weave, and which always tears and tears before my eyes, right in the center of my damn heart.

Finally, I stand in front of your house and can't comprehend all the emotions swirling inside me. My legs ache so much I can't express them. I'm hungry and tired. I observe everything around me as if trying to memorize everything with the precision of a photographic film. I regret not having my camera with me. Suddenly, I realize I'm obsessed with everything connected to you. Any piece of paper—if you've ever held one—elevates to the status of sacred. I want to follow your family members. Follow them to work and shopping. I want to observe what they do, how they do it, who they meet, where they go... I want to wash your car so I can touch it. Scrub the bodywork, polish the windows, wring out rags over and over, and clean it all day long, standing next to your house. In the snow, in the heat—it doesn't matter. Just to be here. Under a pretext, not under the cover of darkness.

I approach your door and rest my forehead against the wooden surface. Am I crying? I dig my nails into the smooth wood and kneel on the ground, feeling like a sinner standing at the gates of paradise. Let me into your heart, I beg you. Because you've grown into mine like ivy. Like a thorn. If you try to leave, I'll die. Because it will be too scarred to beat any longer. There's no way to end this without pain. There's no way.

It gets gruesomely cold, and suddenly I realize I'm inside. This is a sin, I tell myself, I can't be here. I sneaked in like a burglar, I have to leave immediately, this is not allowed, this has to end immediately, or my mind will break... but I don't have the strength. Instead of running away, I climb the stairs. I take one step at a time, as quietly as I can, though my soul wants to scream with joy. Hundreds of thoughts fill my head, suggesting something is wrong. So I kneel and place my hands on the carpet. And so I crawl up the stairs, praying, crying, gritting my teeth, my fists, biting my lips until they bleed. I can't express anything I feel in this moment. I only feel through pain. There's blood in my mouth. But at least it's the blood of the guilty. By the time I reach the top floor, I'm a wreck. I kneel at the threshold of your room, unable to pull myself together.

Minutes pass, and I still don't have the strength to get up. The dawn, which will arrive in a few hours, becomes my worst enemy. I want to stay here. Just being in this place is a delight. I don't know how I'll bear getting closer to you, crossing that threshold. I don't know how I'll bear the sight of you.

I can't bear it. I explode.

I close my eyes and tell myself I'm here. It's so unreal, I can't believe it. I rise from my knees as quietly as I can, so as not to wake anyone. I enter your room like a pilgrim entering a temple.

I came here because I wanted to breathe, because I was afraid I'd suffocate without you. Now I'm so close, and I'm even more afraid. I can't catch my breath. I feel like I'm dying from an overload of feelings. My head can't contain them all, and they come in ever greater numbers and intensity.

I take one step at a time, approaching your bed. A little yellow light from the streetlights outside the window filters into the room. I pass the bathroom door and the part of your room that's designated as a bedroom. I deliberately turn my head the other way, because I don't want to see you yet. I go to your desk and touch the cold surface with my finger. A shiver runs through me. I run my fingers between your pens, touch some papers, a paper clip. Everything is sacred.

I turn very slowly and approach your bed, and when I see you, I'm shaken by your angelic nature. An angelic nature that you now have no control over. You have no mask of indifference; you're simply asleep. You're so natural. And so beautiful. Like the first day I realized I loved you more than anything in the world. Your eyes are closed, and you look like you're just waiting for you to wake up, ready to change the world for the better. I can't take my eyes off you. Exposing such beauty to view is the height of shamelessness. I kneel beside you and thank God for creating something so perfect.

I feel like time has stopped. Like the whole world has frozen in anticipation of something to come. I kneel before the Angel, and suddenly the entire past and future appear before my eyes as clearly as possible. I know all the answers. I killed myself. I killed myself with this love. By allowing myself to feel this way, I wasted and destroyed my future life and the lives of those who will come after me. Because I will never be with you, nor with anyone else—because I will never be able to love anyone else as much as I love you. I will have to lie, pretend. One phone call will make me leave everything for you. I have damaged myself with this love. The world has turned upside down. An angel cannot bond with a mere mortal. So, from the very beginning, of all the possible options, you and me are the one that will never come true, and we'll never know if it would be the greatest happiness of my life or a living hell. You reached out to pet my dog ​​and asked if he bites, and an hour later I took up the challenge. They say love is a risk. But now, kneeling here and knowing all the secrets of the world, I know I didn't take the risk. I destroyed myself.

I reach out to touch your hair, but I can't. It's forbidden. As much as I long to know your body as well as I know my own, I know I won't be the man you allow. I won't be the one to breathe on your face, nor will I be the one to connect with you in the extreme of fulfillment. You won't be the one to wrap your fingers

around my shoulder. I already envy this stranger for allowing you to touch me in ways I can only dream of. I bite my lip hard and feel the salty taste of blood in my mouth again. I rise from my knees and, without taking my eyes off you, take two steps back. Everything happening is beyond my comprehension. I feel the burning fire of tears streaming

down my cheeks again. I don't know where the kitchen knife came from, but I know what I want to do. I grip its handle with all my might and stand over your bed as close as I can get. Suddenly, everything seems to make sense. The night falls silent, and I hold my breath too.

I unbutton my shirt and, still staring at you, plunge it into my chest. I twist. Once, twice, three times. Blood floods my hands and runs down my body, soaking into my pants and the carpet. I yank it from side to side, tearing myself apart. Veins and arteries burst, more blood, I taste it as I swallow. My legs buckle, but I force myself to stand. I push the knife deep inside me, up to the hilt.

You sleep. Your breasts rise and fall with your calm, safe breathing. Angels feel no pain. That's good, because your suffering would kill me. You hear nothing, nothing can wake you from your slumber. A stray drop of blood falls on your cheek, and I thank God I have an excuse to touch you. I wipe away the red spot with a shaking hand and feel the touch of your skin burn. It's like the touch of God—I can't comprehend it with a mere mortal mind.

The fingers of my other hand unclench and release the knife, which slowly falls to the ground. The lantern light catches the bright red blood left on the blade. I reach for the wound I've inflicted on myself, feel for the right shape, and carefully pull it out. I hold it in my palm and watch it beat, faster the closer it gets to you. What good is it? Without you, I'm more imperfect than without a heart. I place it on the table next to my bed. It's already belonged to you.

I know it will soon begin to fork, that this is the end of my time in this world, and it hurts more than the wound in my chest. I button my shirt and look at you, wanting to imprint you as you are now. All that naturalness and radiance. I love you. It's a cliché, I know. In every other song, someone loves someone else. In every other movie, someone confesses this feeling to someone else. But I don't know what else to tell you. Something less clichéd. Something that isn't said as often, yet expresses the same feeling.

Suddenly, everything starts spinning. This is the moment when you know you're about to wake up, yet you're still asleep. It hits me that I only have a few seconds left. I run to you and, breaking all the rules, press my lips to your hair.

The night is still dark. The wind blows. A streetlamp illuminates part of the room.

"I love you," I whisper.

Silence.

"I love you!" I scream.

My voice is inaudible in your world.