duel (#1)

We are looking at the same thing, I guess. At least this is how it should be (almost for sure; maybe not; definitely yes). In the attempt to change my own perspective I move my head to the left, back to the centre and then to the right. I squint and bite my lip and most of all - I try not to look you in the eye. Space and time suddenly fall apart and I know it's exactly 12 PM, noon, and that spurs at our boots are the ones that are making this very faint clang. The hat, that you haven't had on your head just a moment ago, casts shadow on your face and the saliva in my mouth becomes bitter as if I had just bit a blade of grass. We stand opposite to each other but I don't think we can see one another. Everything that there is to it is just a dust on our faces and the Sun that burns our necks and shoulders; there is a yellow sky above and a very distant rumble of the storm that is approaching. (Obviously there is also all of that what is hiding in our fingerprints and shadows under our eyes.) Arms of the tower clock haven't moved for at least ten minutes now. Without thinking much about it I straighten up and tuck my hair to the back so I can look straight at you. I can't explain why I am so surprised that you are still here and that you are looking at me (into me, through me, to me). You are smiling. It starts to rain.

Ouroboros

Air in here is a lot like molasses – sticky, heavy and orange. The last one I’ve made up – I actually don’t know what the colour of it is. But I like to think that this would be it. We are looking at each other above the table. It’s a little bit like a duel, a little bit like negotiation. Somewhere on the peripheries of my vision I can see all of the empty bottles, dirty cups and broken straws. Sunlight – mercilessly – consumes all of the remains of the shadow and everything becomes even more visible, even more tangible - everything but us. We seem to be merely the outlines of the people, faded contours of something that exists only in potentia. I can’t feel my face but I know very well I am squinting and that it goes through series of nervous ticks and contortions – a fucking perpetum mobile of neuroticism. You, on the other hand, resemble a still nature and the longer I stare at you the more I feel as if I were struck by the sudden prosopagnosia. So there we are, at this table, in this heat, flooded with blinding and burning sun – with the seizing reality at my end and this agamic void at yours. I can’t really tell if your lips have moved but surely they must have because the air between us starts to tremble and then a sound of your voice wraps around my head and slithers its way into my ears.

- Fuck.

Probably not the most bright or eloquent commentary to this moment in time and space, but let’s be honest – probably the most fitting. Just to test myself I first nod and then lick my lips. With a relief I notice that your face regained some of the human-like features – a crooked smile becomes visible.

- What now? – I say because I know that one of us has to ask this question and it’s very important to be the one that asks, not the one that answers. Even before the last sound leaves my mouth, you know that you have lost.

- Fuck – You repeat and I couldn’t agree more. We exchange uncomfortable looks and then it seems almost as if the world around us would swallow itself – in a collateral damage we get dragged into the Ouroboros’ belly.

Air in here is a lot like molasses – sticky, heavy and orange…

rain

I am sitting in an ugly and depressing bar. It’s raining outside and it creates a constant hum that swallows all of the other sounds. I start to watch raindrops that hesitantly make a downfall from the edge of the canopy. Unwillingly or maybe even against my own will I start to count them. I know for a fact that it will be very hard to stop. And when I finally succeed my relief will be strained and polluted. Uneasy. “Fuck”, I think to myself to avoid thinking it when you will be next to me. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Forty-seven.

So – it may be that you will walk into this bar just when I will move on to the number fifty-seven. You will have this nervous smile on your face: a bit apologetic, a bit absent. You will also make this weird wave with your hand that could be sort of “hello” but could also mean nothing. I will be still counting – probably won’t stop before sixty-one.

You might come a little bit later, when I’ll be in the low hundreds. If that’s the case I might not even look at you and simply keep on staring ahead. And it’s not because I would be already pissed off with you for all that waiting – it would happen simply because once I get to the three digit plane – it is so fucking hard to stop (it takes at least twenty numbers). But you know it. You would sit down at the table and wait. You could even make a remark that this way our waiting debt is evening a bit.

 You may also not come at all. Then I may stay till it stops raining or maybe even a bit longer - until all of the raindrops from the canopy fall to the ground. At that point I may forget I was waiting for you.

Sixty-one.

crossing

We are standing on the verge of the pavement: less than a few inches from the street, with the ugly cubic building behind our backs. Its shadow covers us and nearly erases from the landscape. Somehow, in this fading light, in this silence of ours – everything looks like a stage set up for the judgement day. Your cough synchronises with the hum of passing cars. It’s eons before one of us decides to move. Metaphysical veil is lifted. Now it’s just a night, the city, headlights of the passing cars and us. Finally we can cross the street.

un-...

At dawn there is something unfinished about the light: it’s weak and faded. It spills on everything around like milk and it’s a little bit harder to breathe, a little bit harder to walk, a little bit harder to see the horizon line and the rising sun. In a way I am also unfinished, half empty and out of focus. I shake out a cigarette from the pack and light it up. The flame has a colour of ultramarine. It’s only few shades darker than my eyes.

Fall

Sun rays devour vast meadows around us. We are far away from every city; in a place where even few steps seem like an endless distance; where minutes become an eternity. Violets and aquamarines dance on our faces - it is cold and our insides start to cover with all the shades of blue. None of us moves, we squint and become even more impermeable. We try to hide heads in our shoulders. 'Maybe we should go', says one of us and we both agree. Yet - immobility sets even stronger in our bodies and I can feel how my hair grows and pierces the ground, how my fingers claw to the grass to become roots, how my heart beat slows down. It's so quiet and so bright. Image of you, hidden behind my eyelashes, is blurred and out of focus. It's so easy to forget that you are still here. Planes that are cutting through the sky above us are mute and leave only white scratches behind. I want to become a sound, I want you to become a sound - even though it travels so much slower than the light. I imagine you start to laugh. It awakens earthquake beneath us. Leaves from my hair start falling down.

Purgatory

"Let's go to the church." That's what you say. Then you just shrug your shoulders and fill the space between us with question marks full of restlessness. Yes, let's go to the church. I nod and collect all of the words that got scattered across the room (I might need them later on). I lift myself from the chair while you - you are already at the door. Air between us shakes and trembles from the heat. Church can save us. Church with cold stone walls. Absolution from this day, redemption from our own hell. Let's go to the church.

Drops of sweat, dirt and profanum travel from my neck, through shoulders and somehow - on the way - disappear. Not all of it, I do not become a saint. This would be way too easy. I try to look at you without actually doing it. Your steps are longer than mine, your shadow so much bigger than the one I can cast. I know for a fact, that if I would ask you to let me hide in you (under you, next to you, with you) - you would agree. But I remain silent and just hide behind my sunglasses. I might only start walking a bit faster, not to stay behind, not to get lost.

There is a big stone bowl filled with water at the entrance. You gather some of it into your hands, blow at it to disinfect it and pour it into my mouth. Amen. Amen to all of these gods we do not believe in. I know I could smile, I know I could say 'thank you'. But the silence wrapped already its fat tail around my throat. So - no. Amen.

There are traces of other people’s sins all around us: they lay abandoned on the wooden benches, carelessly carved on the walls and floor, some reflect in the stained-glassed windows. I find a forgotten bible under my seat. "Open it", this is what you would say - if we weren't mute now.

I turn pages and really want to find a passage that will mean something, that will become a full stop to this day. A passage, a sentence, a word - that will allow us to break out from this ellipsis.

This is when you put your hand on mine and say: "Credo in spiritum sanctum". I nod and finally find my voice. Yes, jesus-joseph-and-mary, let's get some drinks.

Amen.