The teaspoon has been sitting there for a few weeks and has just stopped breathing. Now a fly is trampling on it. It's crawling over it and it's stale, not a fly, a spoon, from the table where we brew our own coffee every day, five days a week—our so-called workdays—and sometimes someone else's, borrowed tea. The fly that crawls over it is still young and doesn't know what it's missing, or who knows, who would understand a young fly.
I stopped, as I often do, not quite sure, and stopped thinking about it. I glanced toward the window. Right below, the once-snow-white, now increasingly chipped and balding windowsill, still trying to maintain its shape and stand its ground with honor, said with a hint of superiority in his voice,
"You're pouring too much water on the flowers..." He snapped his teeth, narrowed his eyes, and fell silent.
"Excuse me?"
Silence, silence again.
I wasn't surprised, because the flowers had indeed turned yellow, thinned, and withered – I thought about it, wondered if he wasn't right.
And time passed by very slowly and sleepily. It was early, so I stood there drowsily too, gesturing with my sleepy hand that I wasn't going, sir. Let time go on, I'm staying here.
So I look again at the fly stuck to the spoon, and the spoon rests breathlessly on the table. And the table seems to have moved closer to the windowsill, and the windowsill is held under the large, yet sleep-deprived window. Outside the window, it's gray and almost empty, because the single tree growing behind it is a rather minor attraction. The landscape is staid and faint. Through the swirling gray glow, not much can be seen.
But the kettle is already heating up, heating the freshly poured water for a fight. It's getting closer, so much so that it frightens the wandering fly, and I hold the mug in my hand, seeing it all, and feeling the lack of fresh air. I put down my cup, tilt my head back, and open my mouth. I stand there for a moment as if I'd just taken a serious beating, my mouth and arms spread out behind me like wings. And at that moment, as my head tilted back, my mouth open, my arms outstretched, a crowd of people appears from somewhere, outside the window, shouting,
"Crucify him! Crucify him!"
I see them poorly dressed, in tattered cotton jackets or coats, conferring, their anger mounting, and it doesn't look good.
What's going on?! A brief shiver runs through me, and my vision flashes. But the cries fade. I'm surprised and wonder if I misheard? Maybe it's too early to react properly, maybe I'm not able to properly assess reality and separate it from the internally controlled illusion. Maybe I'm half asleep, or maybe I'm awake? I'm not sure of anything. I lower my hands and look at my mug for a moment. I pick up the packet of tea next to me and pour two teaspoons inside. The dried, shredded leaves form a pattern. I look at the bottom of the mug, consider, and set the packet aside. But this attempt irritates me. I make a new one. Conscious of every movement, I tilt my head and spread my arms as if unbuttoning the lapels of an invisible cloak. Everything is fine now, and I look good, like Christ. Nothing happens, only the water in the kettle pulses more boldly and squirms, trying to jump out. I smile because I know what's coming, which is why I slowly close my eyes. Outside the window, the increasingly angry, or rather enraged, crowd begins to shout:
"Crucify him! Crucify him! Crucify him!" And one of the zealous opponents picks up a piece of brick and tries to throw it.
The kettle clicks, I lower my hands, and the crowd disperses.
Oh, I think, how it's possible to become a follower so simply, without any obstacles, and even without full awareness. All it takes to get started is a little attention, or a proverbial stroke of luck. After that, I don't have to explain anything to myself or others. And then what's exhausting me can become a victory. Realizing this, at an unusually early hour, but after waking up, I take the tea and bring it to the companions waiting nearby, along with a good thought and my own cross.
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