...a purple, foaming wave piles and rises until it finally catches the sky, scoops up some of the stars, and falls with them to the shore, onto our shoulders. It's late, but we're not cold at all. Only a step separates us from the sea, which will rock a few more times, shake the deepest part of the beach, and finally fall asleep, surrendering to the protection of the night.
We walk along the shore, along the edge, as if on the edge of life and death. By the power of some law, a single paragraph, or a small yet significant point, we still manage. Perhaps it's the stars, or the waves, which instead of destroying, create, bringing solace, or perhaps a guardian angel bravely dealing with robbers?
I put down my pen and paper and settled more comfortably on the hard bed, adjusting my pillow with one hand.
A strange sickness has seized me; I lie closed, as if in recognition. Opposite the books. Instead of standing straight, they tilted to the side and collapsed one on top of the other. Though a few of them struggle to stay on their wobbly legs. Bayonets slung over their shoulders, they obediently report that until the order is lifted, they will guard their shelf as long as possible, like a border post. It's hard to believe. It's hard to believe these books, but I remain sentimental about my talent and loyalty to those who fed me. Bukowski, Nietzsche, Tolstoy, Steinbeck, Miller, Hem, Miłosz, and Hartwig, to finish. And probably many, many more, but I lie there now, not feeling like I'm floating anywhere. A small, purple plastic square next to it ticks the time. And the lightbulb, lit on the same side as the clock, doesn't create a shaded semi-darkness in my small, neglected room; it casts a strong, bright yellow light. Though I know it's just an attempt to frighten the clock. And at the moment when light and time clash... I examine my hand. I wonder WHO drew these strange lines on her, and probably forced her to experience it this way. I withdraw from this and take a detour. I play with the shadow. The shadow is smooth, and cast on the sheets, it creates a castle, a fortress of some kind, which, strangely enough, begins to breathe, ebbs and flows back. The shadow thus gives room for maneuver to the imagination, kept on the sidelines. It breaks through the skin and brings depths to the surface. So it happened, and I admit I like it—playing with the subconscious.
It's Sunday, almost Monday. I've been sweating and coughing for days, and I can't control it. Another attack had just begun when someone I wouldn't have suspected, punching seven digits in the right order, triggered the beep on my phone. I threw off the sheets. I got up. The receiver was in the other room. I answered.
"Hi, it's Karolina, how are you, are you going to the pub?"
I'm usually quite confident with invitations like these. And what was I supposed to say to her now? That I've been struck down by a nasty virus of some nasty disease, that I'm short of cash, that I'm apathetic, that I'm playing with my shadow?
"Maybe another time. This time it was because of illness. Karolina also likes a drink. Plus, she's charming, though she hasn't inspired me in any way so far. But it's just a matter of a good look, or putting my arm around her and running my finger along the back of her neck. I went back to bed. The shortest route possible.
I remember walking back at night, in the middle of the road, between the beams of light cast by the streetlights. An older man, quite drunk, stopped me, which earned my trust. In the middle of the road, where usually during the day there's not even a half minute without someone driving by, he stopped and calmly asked what time it was.
And this was opposite the city hall building. And so he pulled half a liter of spirits mixed with water from his pocket and opened it to repay the favor. We drank heavily, standing there in the middle of the road, chatting away, exploring some of our shared interests. We talked about Led Zeppelin and the like.
"Unfortunately, artists these days, and not just musicians, have to share space with the least responsible people, and then it's difficult to give them, people of considerable talent, the time and attention they deserve. Would you agree?"
He agreed. He agreed, and once again pressed his pathetic bottle into his hands.
"So you asked for the time, and we're running out of time, Grandpa." I patted him on the shoulder in a friendly manner and laughed. Fifteen minutes passed, and no one was driving on our road. We stood there in the middle, talking loudly, trying to become more friendly with the poorly mixed spirits. Finally, Grandpa started singing, though it actually sounded like a deer's roar with a strange melody. Nevertheless, for that moment, I enjoyed the feeling of using my hands, clapping my hands together so forcefully that the echo must have carried beyond the center, to another neighborhood. It was fun, so we stopped paying attention to the imperfections of the drink and just sipped the bottle until I finally went to throw up in front of the office building.
I returned to my seat and lie in bed. I lie there and write. Because...
When words circle like swallows before a storm, wriggling restlessly, rising and falling, trying to find the right path, I have to be faster. And wait for them wherever they go. And that's talent.
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