You're reading the story of a boy who wanted to be a writer. He sat on a windowsill on a dauntingly beautiful April afternoon, his face reflected in the glass opposite, split in half by a white cigarette. A symmetrical, banal face, intelligent, banal eyes and features, distorted by the occasional springtime allergy cough. If there were nothing but this spring, this April, no matter who we attribute this beauty to, everything would be fine. Cafes scattered throughout his beloved city, crisscrossed by streaks of women, skirts, skirts, scissors of thighs, semicircles of hips.
In his hand, a book, read hastily, unnecessarily, because he doesn't want to be a reader. He searches for his place on the other side of words. He hammers, whines, feigns indifference so that his dignity, which is slowly beginning to feel cheated, won't abandon him.
Autumn, winter, allergies, summer. He dilutes his irritation with a cigarette, which in turn fuels his cough. He examines his arms, sculpted at the gym, his muscles, yet toned with each successive cigarette. A pack of Marlboros, Marlboro matches, an ashtray on the windowsill. Marlboros. He pours the ash onto the edge of the windowsill, only to realize a few seconds later that an invisible spring breeze has cleaned up the mess for him. He should be moving forward, completing missions scattered around the city. But he'd like to be a writer. The next day resembles a computer game, running around the city, running errands. Unfortunately, without a weapon in hand. The only form of rebellion he can muster is riding the tram without a ticket. Poznań heroism.
At the beginning of the twenty-first century, the sun streams through the window. His face ages with each passing second; he thinks he can feel it. He feels the smoke dancing around him, lulling his tissues, paralyzing his cells. The smoke flows through his veins, filling his healthy, pissed-off body. Time to get back to his apartment, to deal with someone else's words; he has to commit them to memory. He'd like to be a writer, though.
It's embarrassing to admit it, isn't it? How can you say out loud that you "would like to?" It's so humiliating. It's hard. You have to sow quietly, under the cover of darkness, pretending you don't care. And wait for someone to tell you at dawn that it's grown beautifully. But the only thing that grows at dawn is a section of the chisel with which the future of the species is carved. You carve in dark abysses, you cut through the expanse of cobwebs, anonymous as their owners. The censorship will cut out this fragment. The censorship sleeps in the reflection on the other side of the window. He seems determined, he provokes, he attacks, but he condemns himself for it. Inside him sits a Jesuit, a servant of his own frustration, a man who, no matter how many tailcoats he puts on, will never look human.
Spring doesn't work. It's overrated. Good for poets and fabric softener ads. Not even for writers anymore. Which he is not, but would like to be.
The sun slowly retreats behind the old, tired tenement house. The reflection disappears, and those small eyes become transparent, like his whole face. Finally, they stop watching him. Now only time is watching him, lost and yet to be lost, people who see him and already know everything.
A kid in a tracksuit is peeing against a wall. He thinks no one sees him, but a boy sitting on the windowsill does. The guy finishes and, at the same moment, casually tucks everything back into his pants. He walks away, but we know his underwear is turning a nasty yellow. Apparently, it doesn't bother him. The boy who wants to be a writer feels superior. He was watching him when the other guy couldn't see him. Just like you see the kid in the window now, but the kid can't see you. Do you feel superior? Look around; maybe someone is watching you right now and knows exactly who you are, who you want to be, but you're afraid to say anything. The boy in the window wants to be a writer. Maybe it's funny—he smiles to himself, too, even though he can no longer see the reflection in the window. He feels he's being ridiculous, and all he can hope is that he's not pathetic. That same hope remains for you and your hidden desires. Maybe you also live under the illusion that everything isn't written on your face. That the tissues that make up your skin, asymmetrically interwoven into your features, don't form words, silent, unwanted confessions. Unwanted, because there's always something to hide.
The child climbs down from the window and stubs out his cigarette. On the fading April afternoon, the glances exchanged on the street slowly fall into the chasm between what we desire and what we want to say about ourselves. How good it is that people so rarely look at each other.
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