What root digs deeper
#2 Short story
I smiled at the sight of the most blooming month, April. I don’t have any memories with it that I would want to return to; at times the weather flashes, at times it turns into an ocean. From those conditions, I felt like discovering myself, without any requirements. Around me, people at times dressed more boldly, comfortably, and some still preferred to feel safe with fur or leather on. On a bench I pulled out a sketchbook and took notes, looking around at things that in silence scream to everyone. But in truth are like standing photographs in an exhibition. Eyes like lenses waiting for the viewfinder to capture that frame. Few press the shutter if they cannot grasp the small threads that live around us, and yet they prefer to carry a weight that withdraws them from everything—that is today’s freedom.
Once, one evening with my friends at the bar, as we drank several beers heavily, we spoke about the progress in our new life. Our group—we were not all strict minds. When we played board games, none of us thought about more serious matters like putting a roof over our heads, only about good company. Everyone accepted, even small radical behavior. We talked at the table, recalling old things.
“What if we had never met?” Artur said. His face expressed joy, yet with a bit of melancholy; fatigue was catching up with us after several pints. Even the music could not stir our energy, we sat on the sofa without moving a muscle. I answered him that I couldn’t even gather such an answer within myself to such a fact. For a moment I stared at the ceiling searching for an answer, and nothing came of it. Slowly I stood up, went out onto the balcony to look over the city. When I looked at the LED-lit streets all the way to the end of the first zone of the city, I longed for the unlit roads of the town where I grew up and its silence. Now every few minutes I hear the steps of people returning from work or a party, a family meeting, a breakup, after a fight, after school. Sometimes ambulances passed with the siren on, or police, or fire brigade. There was a lot of it, I couldn’t distinguish. But I heard it, even felt it in my veins, not keeping up with this swarm of ants “in this male summer,” that fragment lit up in my head for a moment. Wojciech came up to me, he came with a limping step. He stretched his back and arms with a bend and joined me in looking out at the city together.
“Still thinking about what if we hadn’t met?” I asked.
“Yes, and they’ll keep developing it,” he answered.
“And they’ll keep developing it.”
“Yes.”
“And did you answer them?”
“Not entirely.”
“A difficult answer?”
“Not difficult.”
“Did you think?”
“A little, but not for long.”
“Not long?”
“I didn’t feel like thinking about it.”
“You didn’t feel like it, nice.”
“And you went out.”
“Yes, and?”
“You were running away?”
“No.”
“It looked like it.”
“I didn’t want to.”
“And were you thinking?”
“A little.”
“You didn’t want to?”
“I couldn’t.”
“How couldn’t you?”
“I don’t know, and why did I have to in the first place?”
“Out of curiosity, what do you think? And had you thought about it earlier than today?”
“I don’t think so, I didn’t even have to, I felt good.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Why is that?”
“Because you probably didn’t come with us to technical school for no reason.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“Maybe there was a reason, and now there isn’t. I didn’t attract attention too often, but I once had an answer.”
“And what is the difference? What would you say now?”
“To just finish, nothing more.”
“And would you answer the same if you hadn’t been in class with us?”
“I don’t know, I guess so.”
“You didn’t think about it? Speak honestly.”
“No.”
“So what were you doing just now?”
“I was looking.”
“You were looking.”
“This city, these lights, these people, sad and tense. I don’t know if I belong here; it was better there. Maybe there are more possibilities here, but more danger, I can’t adapt, Wojciech, you know. If someone wanted to write about me, together with this place, I would be a tragic figure. Living and arriving, I think I will regret my time, this period. What am I supposed to do? I wanted to live anew, I didn’t go wild, I was calm. Around everyone I was only a spirit, I had nothing to add, and when I spoke one sentence, everyone wanted me to finish.”
“And now you don’t think that everything you’ve done was a coincidence?”
“What kind of coincidence?”
“Well, what we are doing now. Us. Do you think we became friends by accident? You appeared to us, don’t you remember?”
“What exactly?”
“You came once, during religion class, and asked if we wanted to play a session of D&D.”
“Well yes.”
“Even though we had known each other before, but how long had it been? About three years. It took those three years for someone to propose something that was an outing to the gazebo.”
“Yes, that’s how it was.”
“That’s how it was.”
“And what do you want to say by that?”
“Do you want to think that you won’t live well?”
“What?”
“Do you want to think that you will not l i v e w e l l?”
“…”
“Everyone will go their own way.”
“…Everyone will go their own way…”
“We don’t know if this is our last meeting, do you think about that?”
“I didn’t think about it.”
“Exactly.”
“Exactly.”
“You will not repent over your sins, you live with them.”
“I live with them.”
“Don’t hide in a Carthusian cell, because you are not in one.”
“I’m not, true.”
“It’s cold, I’m going back inside.”
My face turned to stone as Wojciech went inside, I could not move my body, the cooling of the skin made me realize what answer I supposedly had. Again I stared at the city, a little clearer, more distinct in this dark uncertainty of this place and my decisions. I remember the moment of that frame of the city, it kept developing longer, filling that emptiness which had no answer. Suddenly a flock of birds flew up from below, so quickly I jumped back, looking at what had suddenly happened. The sight, simple as it was, shone with a golden flash, like lightning that stopped in time and could be observed as long as one wished and from whatever angle one wished. It was splendid, mad, holy and cursed. More kept coming, one could guess that hundreds of birds were flying left and right. In groups or alone, however it might have happened. At that very moment, here as I stood on the balcony, and now I see them all the time, from night to day. This event does not sit in my head, but on the page—that which I wrote down, that absurd moment back then. So inexplicable and absorbing. From time to time I browse my notes. I closed the sketch, hid it in the backpack, the river still flows, the wind relentlessly pulls leaves and trees sideways, and the birds sang as I went to the next place.
Amadeusz! This makes me think of chilling with friends drinking beer on a porch that is no longer available. I also liked the conversation. Some people just cant take "thinking about it" or "didn't want to think about it" as an answer.
Hope all is well!