He was at his place, as always.
Tomorrow will start, she thought. She got up early as usual.
Lectures started at eight. She went into the bathroom with a note in her hand.
She slightly unscrewed her pale red lipstick and touched it to the large rectangular mirror on the wall. She looked at the note and began writing.
A moment later, the words were written on the glass:
"Waiting hurts. Forgetting hurts. But not being able to make a decision is the most painful suffering." – Paulo Coelho.
She looked at it.
It sounded reasonable. She was curious about his reaction when he saw it.
She returned late in the afternoon, as always, at his place.
Taking off her shoes, she hurried into the bathroom.
Her note was gone. But instead, there was another one:
"Time doesn't heal wounds, it only accustoms you to pain..." – written in black marker.
She sighed, looking at it.
But I was right, he must be suffering greatly, she thought.
She slowly emerged from the bathroom and spotted him leaning against the hallway wall. The sight of him surprised her a little, even frightened her at first.
"I spent 25 minutes trying to wipe it all off. Lipstick leaves thick streaks," he said suddenly.
She wanted to respond but hesitated.
"Besides, who do you think you are, writing some cheap philosophies of fleeting thinkers in my house?"
She knew this would happen. She knew it would cause an argument.
But she resolved not to rest, to try to reach him through other people's thoughts.
"I just want to help you," she said carefully, emphasizing the last word, pausing significantly.
They stood there, he at one end of the hallway, she at the other. She looked visibly concerned, he seemed intent.
"What do you even know about philosophy?" he began. "Most of your modern thinkers are idealists, believing that everything happens, or at least should happen, as they theoretically assume."
They believe that all people are inherently "good," behave decently, and never harm anyone without reason," he explained briskly, a little nervously.
She remained silent, not wanting to interrupt him now that he had finally begun to speak.
"You're all a complete mess of naivety. Life is simple for you," he began to speak for the first time, as if something had finally managed to force him to change his always indifferent, gloomy tone.
"Who are you, anyway, to lecture me?"
She shuddered, preparing to answer.
"Have you ever suffered?" His voice was becoming increasingly restless and violent. "What do you even know about life?" "You're an empty doll studying irrelevant matters." He was sarcastic, his anger rising.
He knew he wasn't supposed to take the woman into his home, yet he did. They always impose themselves; it's innate.
She stood there, not responding, waiting for what else he had to say.
"Do you think you've suddenly learned everything? That you know anything about life?"
"You don't know anything," he added in a gloomy, gritted voice.
Was he furious with her, or with all of humanity? She wondered at that moment
. "Have you ever even read the great ancient philosophers?" I bet you haven't, and yet you dare write me cheap philosophies that don't relate to the reality around us.
It was people before our era who arrived at the truth. They knew what life was and knew that more than one person could lose to it. Your idealists think it's all a matter of convincing yourself that life is good anyway. Bullshit," he raised his voice slightly. He tried to speak calmly but bluntly.
"And for me, there was something in that sentence," she interrupted him suddenly. "She
has to be decisive. She has to be imposing, otherwise she'll get nowhere.
She hit the nail on the head with this whole philosophy. That's more or less what he did during the day. He intoxicates himself with pessimistic nonsense, suffering even more.
He's lost his sense of purpose, but she'll restore it.
"You have to make decisions. You have to move forward.
That sentence says more than you think—it says you have to learn to respect pain and suffering. You have to live by overcoming obstacles."
She surprised him. He hadn't expected her to argue her point.
Silence fell.
"I spent 25 minutes taking off your lipstick, but you'll take a little longer," he said, then headed for his room.
At first, she didn't know what he meant, but then she quickly realized what he meant.
The black marker on the mirror refused to come off.
She scrubbed and scrubbed, but there was almost no progress.
Finally, after over an hour of painstaking work, she managed to get the mirror clean.
She wouldn't give up.
She would keep writing until she finally taught him how to live and showed him that nothing should be based so much on suffering.
Tomorrow, she would ask her aunt for an effective detergent against his dark thoughts.
And even if she had to scrub, every day, she wouldn't give up until she ignited even the smallest spark within him.
The next day, as she was about to leave, she left another message for him.
"Our life is a constant struggle" – Euripides.
He wanted something ancient, he got it – she thought, and left for class.
When she returned, the words "Man has no power even over his own life" – Blaise Pascal – were written in black.
This time, the cleaning took her 30 minutes.
She already had a certain window cleaner recommended by her aunt.
That night, she couldn't sleep.
She pondered how lonely and abandoned he must feel, and whether specific actions on her part wouldn't be better than words written in lipstick.
Finally, she decided that for now, she still had a few interesting things to write to him.
Today, she would leave him with another thought.
She felt he was pondering and considering them. He certainly wasn't stupid.
He knew a lot about life and probably had strong opinions on more than one subject.
He must have been exceptional before he became who he was – she thought, writing on the mirror.
"Nothing hurts more than wasted time" – Michelangelo.
She just wanted to show him not to waste his life any longer; no matter what had happened, his life still continued. She felt she was significantly helping him cope with the past. She felt she'd chosen the right tactic, one that would help, that would definitely help.
When she returned, there was a sign that read, "It's vain to look for the meaning of life in a life where most things are unfortunate accidents."
He must be one of his realists, she said to herself with a furious expression.
She was becoming increasingly incensed by all those old philosophers whose thoughts dragged humanity back and robbed them of hope.
Days passed.
She left him texts full of hope and struggle.
He left him texts full of suffering and a sense of disbelief in everything.
"Why are you doing this?" he asked one day in his gloomy voice.
"To spend some time in a different room than your black room," she replied with a smile, sticking out her tongue slightly.
She was slowly learning to be with him
. One day, she told him,
"Erase, erase, maybe by staring in the mirror for 25 minutes you'll come to some conclusions."
He didn't understand why he was erasing and writing his texts. Maybe he wanted to prove to her that his efforts were in vain?
Today he had another text for him.
Ever since she began delving into the philosophies of all sorts of people, she felt she understood more. She
felt calmer. She was filled with positive thoughts.
She was finishing writing her thought for the day:
"Be like a bird that, resting in flight on a branch, though it bends under its weight, does not stop singing, because it knows it has wings to protect it from destruction." -Victor Hugo.
She read it again slowly.
This sentence seemed to be her favorite of all the ones she had included here.
"Beautiful," she said to herself
, capping her lipstick. He was waiting for her when she returned in the evening. He had been struggling with all this all day.
He knew there was such a thing as hope. He knew that beyond suffering and pain, there was also happiness and joy.
But he had been mired in pain for too long.
He couldn't forget the past. He couldn't forget the life he was supposed to lead, or the people who were supposed to be in it.
It was unbearable. Too much weight had fallen on his shoulders for him to shake it off and do anything.
Yet he was filled with admiration for his tenant.
She was strong. He was impressed.
She was thoughtful, chose the right words. She tried her best.
Many wanted to help him, but at first they were too intrusive, and then they forgot about him.
It wasn't their fault.
He had cut off contact with everyone. From that moment on, he was a loner. There was only him and his wasted life, which he had been forced to waste.
The first life he had wanted to lead no longer existed. Ideals, love, and ambition were gone; there was no point.
But something inside him compelled him to meet her and engage in some discussion.
She seemed interesting.
He knew he was doing the right thing. He saw she was trying, but he also knew it was pointless in his case. She
would help anyone else, but he was different. She would also ruin her life because of him. And yet, as far as he knew, she liked to have fun.
He just wanted to make sure he knew all this already. He knew that people recover from the greatest tragedies and moved on.
But he had nothing to live for anymore; he used to…
Finally, she appeared at home.
"Oh, I see you've come to some conclusions," she said with a smile, seeing his shaved face.
He rubbed his neck and face.
He'd gotten rid of that ugly beard, which was now itching.
He just made a disgusted face. She smiled even brighter, both on her face and in her heart.
It's always a step forward, she thought.
"It's good that you finally got rid of that ugly beard," she began, entering the kitchen. "Now I see you're a really handsome boy," she added, setting the shopping bag on a stool by the wall.
He stood leaning against his door, his hands clasped behind his back. He watched her.
Now he was the one waiting for what she had to say next.
"Today's sentence was beautiful, wasn't it?" she said to him, shrugging off her coat.
"Be like a bird that doesn't stop singing, even when it loses its footing," she recited almost poetically, striking a pose reminiscent of the Nike statue.
He continued to stare at her. She wondered if he would attack.
"A bird whose wings you clip will wander aimlessly across the earth, preferring to howl at the moon because it can't fly than to delight people on Earth with its beautiful song," he said slowly, gathering his thoughts.
"But you have wings," she began. "There are times when people unite, you should know that.
" "Who said that?" he asked suddenly
. "Confucius, Wilde, Nałkowska, Miłosz?" he asked with increasing urgency
. She moved a little closer to him.
"No," she looked into his eyes.
"I'm the one talking," she added seriously, not taking her eyes off him.
He stepped aside. He was now standing in the hallway, five feet in front of her.
She turned to face him.
"Listen to me carefully," he began. "I know there's such a thing as hope for a better life, and I also know that you can be happy and joyful," he said, extending his hands from behind him.
But I also know that joy and depression aren't so different after all.
"These are just feelings that a person can dwell on according to their own preferences and delusions," his voice grew louder. "You can be happy all your life, and you can be sad all your life." "It doesn't matter, you understand!"
He took a deep breath. She waited.
"Actions are important—what matters is the need to do something, and I've lost that need, finally understand!" He wanted to argue with her, his voice rising. "LIFE IS NOT WORTH NOTHING," he drawled clearly and slowly so she could understand.
"And I won't rest until I give it back to you!" she suddenly shouted .
This surprised him, frightening him for a moment.
"Now understand something," she began abruptly and quickly. "You can't run away all your life!" "I can't stand to look at this any longer! Even if joy and sadness are all the same to you, I won't rest until you start functioning the way I want you to function!" He infuriated her. He unleashed anger within her. Perhaps that was what he subconsciously wanted.
Deep down, he wanted her to order him around and scold him like a little child.
"Whatever happened, you have to move forward!" That's the greatest thing about it all!
Fighting.
Yes, constant fighting!
If you fall, give me your hand! I'll help you up!
You're a stubborn ass! Consciously fooling yourself and persevering in the belief that nothing makes sense! And yet what we've been doing for the past several days makes the most sense!!!" she shouted furiously, rushing towards her room.
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