poniedziałek, 1 czerwca 2026
Don't stray from your path because someone else doesn't know how to walk theirs. Someone else's life shouldn't dictate the course of yours. Some people flaunt what they have without even reflecting on what they carry. If you let yourself be affected by every frustration, you allow directionless people to shape your journey. Remember how hard you've worked to get here. Don't lower yourself to fit where you should never be.
Impermanence: Both joy and sorrow are fleeting; accepting this transience brings inner peace. Learning: Bad moments serve for maturation, while good ones should be celebrated. Balance: Wisdom lies in not being excessively overwhelmed by pain, nor being excessively dazzled by happiness. Faith and Action: On difficult days, one seeks strength to endure, and on happy days, one shares the joy.
— Valéria Teixeira dos Santos
I wish I had the lightness of flowers, bending to the wind and allowing themselves to come and go, without the need for assertive direction; to open up in vast fields and offer everyone their best perfume; to display their beauty without the "makeup" that camouflages it; instead, at times, I close myself off without allowing myself any hint of light. I know it's there. It's just that, to my so limited vision, it would blind me. It's when my inner self vociferates, bringing forth pent-up truths. I am not and never will be the prisoner in my own cell, the one who does not possess the essence of intoxicating aromas, the one whom the light is intimidated by the rays it itself reflects. I will be part of the flowers that let themselves exhale, that offer their beauty and bend to the winds, without fear of storms, with the intention of being and living exactly as they are: beautiful, fragrant, and free.
"Peace isn't always easy to achieve or keep close. In the process of conquering and protecting it, you may feel tired, exhausted, and uncertain about how to preserve your peace. While uncertainty is normal, continue to commit to inner peace. You deserve every drop of sweetness and tranquility you find. Being tested is part of the journey. Giving up and letting go is not."
— Ana Cristina Cesar – poemas
I curiously opened the sky. Then, gently parting the curtains. I wanted to enter, heart to heart, whole or at least move a little, with that restraint that characterized the agitations calling me I even wanted to know how to see, and in a circular movement like the waves that surrounded me, invisible, to embrace with my retinas each tiny piece of living matter. I wanted (only) to perceive the unseen in the lightest light that flew overhead. I wanted to take a stroke of the infinite light that mingled with me. I wanted to capture the unnoticed in the smallest moments of space naked and full I wanted at least to keep the curtains open in the impossibility of touching them I didn't know that turning inside out was a deadly experience.
- Julia Figueiredo
Young people claim we're getting old. Old people laugh, saying we still have plenty of physical vigor and productive strength, and that every experience is worthwhile. Enlightened people always recommend reflection and that everything is a matter of balance. Philosophers insist that there are things that aren't worthwhile and that, to identify what is, we must delve into self-knowledge. Psychology asks what we feel with such experiences and simplifies things: the answer lies within ourselves. Religion urges us to be optimistic and to face chaos with perseverance and courage. Society shoves our obligations down our throats, and statistics say that if we don't produce, we're useless! The clever advise going abroad to live the life we deserve. The witty say that if there's love, it's worthwhile; otherwise, let's stay put. Complicated!
Faced with this complex range of opinions, I prefer to summarize my belief in the phrase I read today: "When gratitude truly invades your life, the little things become important." This even applies to things that might not be worthwhile.
"Have you ever stopped to observe a drop of water? Yes, a tiny drop of water balancing on the tip of a fragile twig... Gracefully, the droplet defies the law of gravity, swaying on the edges of leaves or the petals of a flower. They are minuscule drops that adorn nature on dewy mornings or remain like small liquid diamonds after the rain has passed. That is why a good observer would say that life would be different if there were no drops of water to dew the grass and soften the dryness of the soil."
"The possessive mode not only reduces being but also restricts freedom. The things we possess possess us. We are possessed by our possessions, in the sense that we have to think about them, worry about them, take care of them. We are not free to turn our backs on them and move on because, for many of us, they represent our identity, our security, even our sanity."
SHE and HIM.
She knew that if she left now, she would close behind her not only the door to his apartment, but his entire world—their world, their reality.
She hesitated on the threshold, pressing the doorknob. Perhaps she should help him? Perhaps she should at least try? No. She couldn't help, she couldn't try. Locked in the inner world of her own madness, she was indifferent to the world.
He didn't ask her to stay. He didn't want to force her, he had no hope for her affection. He had once been different, once he would have turned away from love without a shadow of a doubt, without a second thought. He had once had many girlfriends, once he was fascinated by gaining new experiences, playing appropriate roles, thus penetrating the minds of others. Once—before he met her.
Everything in his life changed when she crossed the threshold into his interior. She was the only one who could see deep into his world and create there her own, worthy of a vast empire. She had turned his life upside down, forcing his thoughts with indifference, stirring up doubts with words. He didn't know how the feeling had first arisen within him, when he'd begun to grow attached to her, and eventually miss her.
He didn't want to think about it. He was sitting on the rough carpet now, a carefully placed line of amphetamines in front of him. His mind was blank, even though hundreds of thoughts were digging a huge hole into which he was slowly falling. He didn't want to answer any questions – he knew he'd eventually realize what he'd lost and begin to regret not keeping her.
Her shoes were already laced, her jacket zipped up, and she held an umbrella. Nothing was keeping her here, and yet she was questioning herself whether what she was doing was right. She wasn't about to dwell on it – that wasn't her style. She always made split-second decisions, going with the flow, regardless of the consequences. But this time, she was doing something against herself. Because she didn't want to leave at all, she didn't want to cross that threshold at all. Something was keeping her here. Him? Or perhaps it was simply a magic powder that transported him to another dimension? She didn't know, didn't want to know.
She yanked the doorknob open, flung it open, and ran out without a backward glance.
The sound of the slam echoed through his room, filling the emptiness of his mind with an unbearable scream. He had nothing left to lose.
He leaned over the mirror with the smudged line on it, and plugged his right nostril with his finger. For a split second, he saw his bloodshot eyes in the dirty mirror, then quickly closed them. He inhaled. And nothing mattered anymore. He forgot.
She slammed the door behind her, into his stairwell, into his apartment building, into his yard. It was no longer their home, their concrete sidewalk, their playground.
Was she sad? Did she regret it? Did she feel guilty? Did she feel anything at all? She ran, running, to avoid thinking, for the wind to cleanse her of the last remnants of doubt. She didn't stop for a moment, all the way home. She covered several blocks, several familiar alleys. Only on her own staircase did she breathe a sigh of relief that her nightmare was over.
He was far away. He lay on the floor with outstretched arms and flew. He was a butterfly, he was the pilot of a huge plane, a bird, and finally he was an angel with enormous, shimmering wings. Thousands of colors of unprecedented hues, flashes of light in shades never before seen, penetrated in fractions of a second.
He was in Paradise. In his own Paradise of oblivion.
"Are you back already? I hoped you'd stay longer," her mother greeted her reproachfully from the doorway.
"No..." she said casually. She took off her jacket and shoes, set her umbrella aside, turned off the hall light, and hid in the darkness of her room.
Despite the early hour (the clock was only striking 11:00 PM), five minutes after going to bed, she fell asleep.
She dreamed of a door. A huge oak door, with an equally huge gold doorknob. From the side, she observed the entire scene, as if watching a movie. But this wasn't a movie—this was her dream—an image conceived from within.
A small creature stood before the door—a girl with green eyes, in a white lace dress. She stretched her tiny hands upwards to grasp the large doorknob, to reach the other side of the secret gate. With all her strength, she tried to grasp the handle, but to no avail.
Suddenly, she burst into a deafening cry of helplessness. She began to cry horribly, jump, and stamp her tiny feet. Her white slippers clattered against the marble floor, making a loud sound that echoed clearly.
She quickly tired, seeing no effect from her efforts. She doubted the point of continuing and stopped crying. She sat down across from the door and began to carefully examine the enormous doorknob. Bored, she quickly curled up on the floor and fell asleep.
She woke up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat. The room was terribly stuffy. Unconscious, she opened the window and returned to bed. For a second, she didn't know what was happening around her, but a moment later, she regained consciousness.
She remembered her dream. She never ignored night visions, subconsciously searching for signs, not necessarily convinced of their impact on reality. And suddenly she realized that the helpless girl from her dream was herself. She was frightened, but she ignored her premonitions.
She believed she had once and for all shed her humanity – feelings and emotions, fear and anxiety, love and hatred. She trusted that this would be for the best.
He sobered up late at night. He lay on the carpet the entire time, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. He was no longer a butterfly, no longer a pilot, no longer a bird, no longer an angel. And he had no wings at all, and there was no green meadow full of flowers beneath him. His back ached from the hard floor, he was hungry, and he had no desire to fly anywhere anymore. Mechanically, he stood up and went to the kitchen to quench his thirst.
Every corner seemed empty now without her. He felt like he was in a strange apartment. Nothing held the same character as before, everything was strangely bland.
And this was only the beginning, these were only the first few hours. He could ease it; he could make one phone call and distract himself from the pain. Maybe this time, instead of wings, he would have, for example, the great sword he had always dreamed of? He would have everything, everything he wanted, anything he desired. The problem wasn't a lack of money or fear of addiction—he and she had promised each other something long ago.
"You'll never snort without me, and I without you," she said one beautiful, sunny morning.
"Never," he replied.
Yesterday he broke his promise for the first time, but yesterday he wasn't himself. Remorse would kill him if he did it again, this time in complete sobriety. He wanted to honor the one flawless vow in his life, he wanted to honor the memory of the one pure being in his life.
He went to bed with tears in his eyes. He didn't hide his suffering from himself—in the silence of his own, otherwise empty apartment, he opened his soul full of pain. He cried.
She fell asleep feeling helpless, unwilling to live. She buried fear and pain deep within herself. Carefully hidden, forgotten—forever buried, as she thought—emotions prevented her from resting in peace.
Days passed, nights passed. She felt nothing, suppressing her thoughts; he felt all too much. He hadn't broken his promise to himself or her—he hadn't touched amphetamines since that fateful evening. It wasn't difficult for him; after all, their drug adventure hadn't lasted long. She, too, had held back, despite her immense desire.
They'd met on the street a few times, said hello, and passed each other indifferently. But for them, the world revolved solely around them—for her, nothing existed but him, though she refused to admit it. He thought of no one else but her. They lost themselves—she unconsciously, he with the fullness of their selves.
And that's where it all could have ended – she would have graduated high school with a passing grade in history, gone to the college her parents dreamed of, met a well-mannered man there, met for coffee a few times, and then gone to bed. Over time, she would have decided she would never meet anyone more worthy of her life. Perhaps he would even manage to snatch her from the void, tell her he loved her and wanted to spend the rest of her life this way. She would have stopped there, fearing loneliness, married him, given birth to three children, lived to old age, and died.
He would have finished his studies, found a stable job, made a few pennies, sold his parents' apartment, and left the country, as he had always dreamed of. He would have returned to his old life – many women without commitment or affection. Finally, he would have met one who best met his expectations, won her favor, as with hundreds before him, proposed in some expensive restaurant with a pre-made ring. She, captivated, would agree; they would live together, then have two children, grow old together, and die.
And so they would both pass each other by in their own worlds, forget about each other, leaving behind every other pleasant memory. Everything could have unfolded in that standard, ordinary, and banal way. It could have, if it weren't for her, or rather, the higher power that guided her during the most difficult moment of her life.
"And how?" her mother looked at her unconvinced. Her daughter's earlier assurances had forever dashed her hopes of passing her final exams.
"I told you a month ago.
" "So you failed?!" her mother raised her voice. "What a shame! I really didn't think you were so stupid. You couldn't even afford a measly thirty percent!" she shouted.
"Shut up!" She couldn't bear the tension.
Her mother approached her and slapped her across the face. The gesture was spontaneous, imprecise, yet painful. She only heard a muffled whisper, "Get out." She was shocked. Instinctively, she clutched her cheek. Her mother went to the kitchen, leaving her alone.
Without a second thought, she grabbed her bag, opened the door, and ran out. She knew where to go; her legs carried her. She'd wanted this from the moment she crossed the threshold of his house, leaving him on a trail of amphetamines.
She wanted to see him, to hug him, to kiss him. To be like before—gestures without strings attached, freedom of action without feelings or emotions. To draw more of the poison of the flesh from this toxic relationship than the pleasure of feelings. All this at the cost of his commitment, and her fear. Now she knew she'd fled then, fearing love. Because she didn't want to love, she didn't want to admit to herself that she was capable of love.
She had the keys to his apartment and opened the door without a second thought. From the threshold, she smelled a familiar scent—a wonderful blend of his intense perfume, cigarette smoke, fresh bread, the aroma of the coffee he drank every morning. This was the scent of his small apartment, the scent of his world.
She was trembling, yet a strange peace filled her. She knew she would soon see him, that she would exchange more words with him than a silly "hello." Happiness in pain filled her. She was afraid to trust her own intuition. He could be gone, she could find him with another woman, or worst of all, she could see him high.
She hesitantly took off her shoes and entered the room where he usually spent days like this—after all, over the two years of their "relationship," she had gotten to know him well. She wasn't mistaken. He stood with a cigarette in his hand, staring out the window. He didn't even flinch when she entered.
"I want the path," she announced from the threshold. Without any introduction, a simple "hey, how are you?" After nine months of separation.
He turned around.
"Is that why you came?" he asked, looking at her intently.
"Yes, that's why.
" "But I don't want to," he said casually, turning towards the window.
"I'm not asking you to come with me. I came for permission.
" "And what if I don't give it to you?
" "You know perfectly well I won't break my promise. I'll leave and never come back." A moment of silence. "And over time I'll start to regret ever coming here. "
Silence.
"You didn't pass, did you?" he suddenly broke the silence.
"I didn't pass.
" "Do you think she'll save you? That she'll let you forget? Even if she does, for how long—an hour, two, three? And then what? Will you come home, or leave before she completely enslaves you, and then what?" he said expressionlessly. His voice was bland and empty.
She was silent for a moment.
"You know perfectly well why I'm here," she said suddenly. She was terrified, quickly analyzing the meaning of those words in her head.
"I know, but do you know?" He turned to her and began to study her.
She felt as if his gaze were scanning her, that what he was doing wasn't real—that this was another one of her dreams. But this time she had power, she had influence over what could happen, what was supposed to happen. Why had she waited so long?
"I love you," she said. Inside her was everything—anger, fear, anger, peace, longing, joy, laughter, screams, silence. Millions of feelings, thousands of thoughts—each with a different meaning, each telling her one thing—you love Him.
" "I love you too," he replied calmly.
But he had never felt such an emptiness inside him, never wanted to free himself from those words as he did now. He was happy.
They stood motionless opposite each other. For the first time, they spoke silently, observing only each other's eyes. For the first time, she, looking at him, saw his wings, and he, seeing her, felt her scream inside him.
"I don't want this to be just a dream," he said suddenly.
"This isn't a dream," she replied.
Neither of them knew how they found themselves in each other's arms, then they went to bed and made passionate love. It was her first time with a man, he had made love to such a woman.
They woke up tangled in a single embrace. He wasn't asleep when she opened her eyes. He was staring at her the entire time, observing her sleep. He smiled as soon as she opened her eyes. She kissed him lightly in gratitude, snuggled tightly against his body, and fell asleep again. He kept watch.
That same day, she returned to her house to get her things. They both decided it would be better if she moved out of her parents' house. And so she did, without even warning them. She simply left.
Stop. What now? A wonderful life together for the rest of their lives? Did they both realize what they had done? Did either of them know the burden they were placing on themselves? Anyone, at any moment, could realize love, escape life, and devote themselves forever to another person. Anyone, but them.
Did you predict a bright future for them? A wonderful feeling full of sacrifice, passion, fascination? After all, they loved each other so much.
No.
Everything changed when he stopped coming home at night. It was summer, exactly two years after she had entered his apartment. They lived wonderfully during that time—a shared apartment, a shared life, a shared world—how beautiful that sounds, don't you think? They were happy, truly happy.
She worried why he wasn't around so often, why he had become strange, different—secretive. She knew something was troubling him, but he couldn't tell her.
"Love sometimes holds secrets. I'm doing this for her good," he thought. He lied to both himself and her. She was slowly descending into a sick madness, and he kept telling her everything was fine.
One summer morning, he woke her up early.
"I'm going out," he announced.
"Why are you waking me? Is something wrong?" She was sleepy, half-conscious.
"I'm leaving everything to you," he said. "I'm going out for a long time, but I'll be back," he added.
"Where are you going?" she panicked.
"I'll be back. I'll definitely come back to you.
" "Tell me, where are you going?!" she raised her voice.
"I was accused of drug dealing. They sentenced me to five years," he said dryly.
"What?!" she exploded. She jumped out of bed and threw herself into his arms, tears streaming down his face. He didn't move. "Why didn't you say anything?" she cried.
"I'll come back to you, darling. I'll be back. Just wait for me." He pushed her away and left. He left and never returned. And she waited.
Adam on the power of dreams
Adam, Slawista, and Advocate went to the cinema to see a series of films about dreams. There were over twenty minutes left until the show started. Adam decided to take advantage of this opportunity. Gentlemen, every evening, after reading several dozen pages of an excellent book, I turn off the light, cover my tired eyes, and transport my mind to the landscapes of my subconscious. I transform my current reality, sometimes sad, sometimes complicated, into a highly subjective, internal world, with incredibly intense and distinct mechanisms. Then dreams arise in my head, both fantastic, irrational, unsubordinated to reason, and those more akin to realism, yet not entirely. They falsify, distort reality, rebel against it, governed by different laws. I see a certain power in them. Gentlemen, I believe that our dreams represent hidden potential, a hidden power dormant in the depths of our souls. Like captivating music, they allow us a moment of solace, a chance to regenerate our minds by powerfully presenting our hidden desires and thoughts. Although very hazy, mysterious, and not fully understood, they encourage reflection, sometimes bringing joy, sometimes irritating and frightening. Therefore, in my opinion, in this sense, dreams are incredibly significant. The moment I fall asleep, a powerful curtain rises, as in a theater. The theater, in this case, is my mind. The actors take the stage. I am a participant or observer of an incredible play about my life. I stand on stage with the others and reenact what happened during the day, or what happened in the past. I relive my own emotions and experiences. Every night, a different scenario unfolds. Unfortunately, for the past week, I haven't had any dreams. I've been depressed, a bit devastated, and hungry. The turning point came last night. I was nourished by a dream, after a week-long hiatus. Gentlemen, allow me to share its content. A few months ago, I came to the revealing conclusion that in my dreams, everything happens in a contradictory way, everything is reversed.
"Please phrase this more correctly," the lawyer said. "
I agree," the Slavist added. "Until now, everything has been very clear, transparent, and has followed the traditional path, but that unfortunate last sentence... I wish you would pay more attention to your explanations."
"My dears, I beg your understanding; I didn't mean to cause such a stir. I assure you, gentlemen, that this kind of situation will not happen again. When I said that everything is the opposite and reverse, I meant that if in reality I am tired and exhausted, then I dream of strength and full physical and mental fitness. It was similar in my dream last night. However, before sleep covered my eyelids at noon, I went to the lottery to select six numbers. From then on, I dreamed of winning, of warm, unpopulated islands, of a sovereign life, of helping others—in short, of wealth. I ate a hearty dinner at the bar, washed it down with one beer, and left. I spotted a beggar on the street and dropped a few coins into his hat, thinking that I would soon be a millionaire anyway. I also observed the drunks arguing, and I must inform you, gentlemen, with a heavy heart, that no compromise was reached." I returned home, still thinking of the sweltering islands and the considerable sum of money. I drank another beer and, after only a few minutes, fell asleep like a tired child. Gentlemen... In my dream, I was homeless. At the train station, I wandered, rich in helplessness, my worn-out hands clutching enormous bags containing my entire life's possessions. I lacked space and privacy, as travelers impatiently waiting for delayed trains looked in my direction without any understanding, with a slight grimace, with disgust...
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