the desire of writing,
often pumps out from the journey of traveling somewhere, by feet, by train, by air,
it happens at the in-between-moment,
or the moment of not precisely knowing where you are,
in a space dislocated
in a bar with 90s disco music
in the moving light reflecting from a disco ball,
or simply, it comes to her at the moment of a lost stare,
innocent, dislocated, rambles in silence, in a displaced yawn,
with
a blurry image of someone, almost inaudible
the writing has to be addressed to somebody
be it an imaginary friend
or a forgotten lover
or the self, who is confused by the early falling darkness of a winter day in kraków, in a language she does not understand,
then it comes the yarning of writing...
but why?
how so?
and why?
why not?
she wonders while she looks away,
her hands support her chin, she is almost ready to sink deeply into her thoughts,
yet
it is exactly the moment when such desire drifting into the milky way,
her friends call,
‘are you ready to go home?’
her pondering thoughts are suddenly interrupted by the call of reality,
like a jump cut in between the unfeasible abstraction and the material world —
‘yeah’
her voice soft, opaque, as if she just woke up from a long feverish sleep
she stands up, puts on her coat and follows the tails of the boys
they kiss the girl goodbye and leave the bar
vanish in the deep corner of the foggy streets
there is neither trace of writing nor trace of desire
there is only the fog
extensively expanding into the unknown.
11. 11. 2018 kraków