Great. Great Nothing.

"(...) first they'll put you in a cradle, then in a coffin.

That's your whole life.

And eternity is just a few ashes and bones at the bottom of a rotten coffin.

And there's no "Non omnis..."

Because you die whole and entire.

God went bankrupt on this business.

This bankruptcy would have to be announced throughout the entire industry, in all churches.

Man is not a reed in the wind, but a living carrion...(...)"

J. Krzysztof "Madness" Volume I.

I don't know if it's terrible. But it's the first feeling that arises in me when I see Her. After all, Her face, Her hands, Her Everything looks as if it were lying in a coffin. Her eyes. Seemingly open, but she could just as well have been lying in a coffin with her eyes open and that wouldn't surprise anyone, no one would feel the need to approach and close the eyelids of this already dead woman.

Whenever I've been to funerals, it's always been a huge surprise for me to see The body of someone I knew. A stiff body and a face completely unlike the one I could once look at without fear.

You can get used to this Woman's funeral in advance. She seems to be walking along this path, smiling at me every time we have the opportunity to be in the same room. Sometimes she says something, but rarely; she usually doesn't hear the questions and conversations directed at her. I remember once she thanked me for tea, probably fruit tea. That it was good. "Delicious, fruity tea." I looked into her eyes and couldn't see anything. No satisfaction, no scent of the fruit tea she enjoyed so much. There was nothing in those eyes. In fact, there wasn't even Death in them. Not even Emptiness.

Once, I deliberately took a camera to meet her. Black and white film. I didn't even have to wait for the right, perfect moment to capture her at her best. Every moment was the best. The one when she emerged from around the bend, the one when she lifted a hot glass of tea with her right hand. She embraced her whole right hand. A glass of tea filled with boiling water. It didn't even surprise me.

Apparently, she hasn't gotten out of bed for a long time, lacking the strength to stand. That's what they say about her here. But I know she doesn't want to get up. That she's terrified of looking down at her feet, calves, thighs, because she can't see any further. Whenever she bends her head too low, she feels like it will detach from her thin neck, fall to the floor, and roll under the table. And "Alina so rarely cleans the dust under the table now that she might not notice her head, and who knows when someone might pick it up."

And She lies quietly in bed, with a scarf on her head, a green scarf, very flowery, and lies there, probably thinking thoughts called "nothingness." Every morning, She waits for the night, when She can sleep a few hours of the day, somehow survive. And at the same time, She can't wait for the next day. Because maybe someone will come to Her. Although She would prefer no one to visit Her anymore, no one to look at Her.

I wonder who She sees when She looks in the mirror. Or what She feels when She touches Her body. Does She use a sponge, or perhaps Her hands are so rough that a sponge is unnecessary. I wonder if She feels pain when Her left hip hits the edge of the table. I wonder what She hears around Her, when She sees someone talking to Her. I wonder what She sees when She looks. When She looks at me. I wonder if, lying there in bed, it ever occurred to Her that She would become someone's obsession.