By Adelajda Truścińska
Once you have sat beside me and we can whisper, I shall say: I didn’t know you can fold a sheet of paper into an envelope. I didn’t know you feel lonely once in a while.
I sit in the chair with my head bent backwards, looking at the ceiling and occasionally closing my eyes for a while, making faces. Now I cover my face with my hands, rubbing my eyes, yawning and poking my eyes. And now I put my fingers into my ears, stroking my ears from the inside. I hold my head and ruffle my hair, I hold it upright, then let it go freely, and it falls down slowly, and then I hold and let it go again and then two more times. Now I put my hands together like in prayer, looking ahead, letting my eyes rest. I am tired, so I bend my head backwards once more. It feels uncomfortable, but I do not change the position.
Once you have sat beside me and we can whisper, I shall say: if only Picasso could see your nose.
On scorching days, when others were sweating profusely, I just stood and watched the shadows of flying objects. Everything sped up suddenly. I rewound and saw the sunrise, I fast-forwarded and saw the sunrise. I caught the tiniest bits of sounds and thought I was in a movie.
I was out of breath, I could feel a lump in my throat and my heart pounding. I would wake up under the hot quilt, but whenever I let my hand slip out from under the quilt, the air was ice-cold. I didn’t know what kind of feeling that was, and I was still convinced I was in a movie. The sky was pink and my face was bright green, while my contours red. And I would be looking ahead all the time, but I had no idea what at, since the camera never showed that. I could only see what was behind me.
Tarantino spent the whole day watching films today. Alexander spent the entire day starving today. I read about it on the staircase wall, when I was descending or climbing the stairs. Or, perhaps, it was someone else. The camera never showed that. The wall was never out of frame.
Leaving the shrink’s office, leaving the hospital, he knows it’s going to be better. It’s going to be better.
It’s a gorgeous day, and it may be grey, but everything seems to be just fine. It’s truly a great day. This is what the world looks like when I am healthy, this is what the world looks like when I am healed, he keeps telling himself.
He walks, skirting around puddles, and even though he sees someone else reflected in them, everything seems to be just fine. This is what I look like when healthy. This is what I look like when healed, he says. People are looking at me, complementing me. Everything is just fine. They tap me on the shoulders, saying: Everything is all right. You are finally your usual self. I am finally my usual self.
I’d better pay off all my debts today, give away my collection of records, and I won’t cause trouble anymore. You needn’t worry about me. I am very strong now. I have found enough inner strength.
As I’ve got my pockets packed with all the things I need, my beltless trousers keep falling down. I have only one pair with a belt, but they’re not the ones I am wearing now. The girls and boys beside me are playing Intelligence. It’s a kind of game, no good for me. They’ve just got the letter ‘R’, which I couldn’t say, but they pronounce it normally, just like that, easily and without struggling too much: ‘R’, ‘R’, ‘R’.
May pockets are full of sand and my trousers are hanging down, revealing a piece of the navy blue swimming trunks with a tie cord, without any metaphors. The girls and boys stop their game and wonder if they should have a cigarette break at that station. They can’t know it yet, but I shall go with them. I will ask them as politely, nicely and kindly as I can whether they can spare me a cigarette. And they shall say: Sure thing, take three.
I have some great experience in that matter, just do not tell my mum about it.
The view outside the window is quite gorgeous. Who would have thought? Fucking awesome that Poland is.
The girls and boys have fallen asleep. They have their backs sunburnt and occasionally moan in their sleep, whenever their bare hot skin rubs against the rough surface of the seats. At their feet there are fashionable backpacks, stuffed with sandwiches made from the same type of bread. Nine identical rolls with lettuce. When they wake up, they will talk about their vegetarianism.
We pass by some unfamiliar villages and houses. There is always someone standing next to the track, watching the train I am on. Some people wave. I would prefer to be heading in the opposite direction. Some caught a fish. I wish my back was burnt with the sun. Some kick stones, eat fruit, call their dogs. I wish I could turn my face towards the sun, to see the light, to close my eyelids, to feel their warmth and name the colour.
I have my hands in my pockets and a piece of sky outside the window.
It’s seven in the morning, I step outside the house, it is hot.
It’s an image in which I am standing bare-footed on a hot floor, leaning against the hot door, which is always closed. My skin is red and conceals what’s beneath it. The leaves on the trees are green, the sun is white. There is only one table here, and only one chair, no one else will ever be here. A man full of convictions, a man with his head screwed on right, is listening to John Frusciante yelling.
The air started moving, carrying a sound. A moment passed. I turn around, open the door.
It’s an image in which I am walking through the door, bare-footed.
It’s 18 degrees, the clouds are gathering.
Some men penetrating the sunrise and some women melting in the air, once they remembered, they had to forget.
A woman whose face I shall never see and a bird that will never rise up.
I have no idea where it is going. If to silence – fine, if nowhere – fine.
It’s 17 degrees and raining. In an hour there will be another hour.