It is only sometimes when I get out from the shell and then try to contact through the unbreakable barriers with people.




It was mainly raining while I was here last time. By chance met few known persons. Then I left to the country called home, but this time this real one, gardenia one, with the roots deeply hidden in the nerves of youth. The playground full of passed but still remaining faces that reappear like the ghosts in forgotten obscured streets where only the rats can find the absence of the beauty and regardlessly are favored with that. The paths which don't exist any more but the feet are crossing the well known stones with the eyes stared high above the horizon where always wanted to steal them and rarely were able to move farther than to the closest shop with the non luxury products. The place of unchanged figures, the actors with the roles ones taught, with no doubts in dialogs, with not a single blink in the eye. The mouths which repeat the phrases on the self recorded vinyls of the mind. They will survive the heaviest storms and will not suffer the single day from the lack of conversations. The shells became their houses, became their skins, became themselves. Two shells standing arm by arm behind the desk that separate You from them. The desk where You receive Your daily amount of survival kit and where You can ask about the forgotten friend. In the place where the shell doesn't want to remember her son and where the second one is smiling with flat grimace of indiscretion. With the bag fully packed by the scrupulous vendors of Your reminds You enter the home, this real one.
On the stairs, instead of the always exultant, spinning with her tail like a comet, dog You can see the broken branch of the authority that planted out to the new garden try to raise its body and let the leaves get some Sun. By the constantly repetition it moves forward to the point of once fixed judgment. Only on the tiny line, behind which the concealed jarring teeth play the song of the battle between the troops of karmas deeds, You can notice the hope, sitting with her left leg over the lower lip and the right one stretching on the drop of sweat. You jump over the stairs like You would like to say: "you will never grow up", but the tongue is being dragged back into the hall sounded with unspeakable rage. And then You enter the home, this real one and irreplaceable.

The rain came back after the week sunk in the Sun. The events get shape after.

Through the gates of old book at the end of the corridor there is a place where behind invisible transparent curtain you immerse into the ocean of knowledge. In a dimmed light you can recognize the shape of the curve, while the inverse figure is still hidden between the conventions. The view that spreads behind the projections of never shoot movie. The actress stays in between. Her gaze is pointed towards me, in the eyes I can notice the big question mark which was there from the beginning. Then she is leaving. The greenness remains as the lamp and two white squares that paint the circles around the windows. And then You enter....

On the white cupboard there is always the place for the ashtray in which the rests of our dreams are burning in the flames of the boundaries that created in front of our plans took over our lives. He is growing fast in the unmeasurable tact of his passion to smoke, his passion to think, his passion to let the beard steering his wheel, the wheel of uncompressed desire that erected during the endless nights spotting the fields of her forgotten unsolicited pussy. It is like reflection - the mirror behind which I reflect him and he becomes me, but there is no certainty which one is real and who is only the image, the play card image of the flipped over king.


Darek - the person without the role. Simplicity in the roots of freshness. Darek is simple, and so much real, so much close to the life, so serious and naive at the same time. Darek dreams sometimes, he knows what is true and what is the constant illusion. He doesn't choose, he ain't no choice - he knows. He is the saddest person I have met. He owns two motorbikes and one car.


In the midst of evaporating lungs of the south end of the Island called home I entered the dreams world. Completely condemned, hidden against the tourists, precisely concealed in the darkness of the forest Alice in Wonderland world.