I'm creaky and ached, dragging limbs
in the sunshine bake.
It's not really a walk, or a dance, but a fight
—just to live another day
the way I want in the light.
Stuff keeps piling up.
Useless shit I shouldn't have.
Project fragments tumbling over all my shelves and all my desks.
There's a temptation to twirl
in the center of the room,
with a kerosine can in my hand,
showering everything, before dropping
a match on it all as I drag my limbs
out to the front yard to watch it all expand in anger,
then contract in shame.
Down to dry ash, to be fondled by a breeze.
Down to dimensions past, behind doors without keys.
Down to nothing, leaving just an open space
for a brand new canvas.
What could I do then?
Topór w dłoni. Skóra niedźwiedzia na plecach. Ledwie trzymająca się kupy kolczuga i grube, ciężkie buty z wilka. Nawet hełmu nie ma. Ale wytrzymuje dzielnie walkę. Brnie naprzód wśród głębokiego śniegu. Skrzy się delikatnie. Ten śnieg. Może to dobry omen? Nagle ryk. Wilk? Niedźwiedź? Łoś. Wielki łoś zaszarżował. udeżył go rogami. On się ich przytrzymuje, żeby nie spaść pod ciężkie kopyta, które zmiażdżyły by go w kilka sekund. Wdrapał się na łosia, chwytając się mocno przydługawej sierści. Zwierzę biegło dalej, jakby nagle straciło zainteresowanie w jego nowym jeźdźcu. Chyba dobry znak. Przynajmniej miał własnego łosia.
Shapeshiftier. You were a shapeshifter. Should you tell him? How would he react? He's just a simple guy. No way he'd be a mutant like you.
You sighed heavily, trying to comprehend whatever was going on in your head. You had to make a decision of your life. Tell him? Or not? Not all people are tolerant towards mutants.
But he's your sweetheart. He's a ver understanding person in general. Why would he not understan you? You've known each other for such a long time. How long? Maybe 10 years or so? You were little when you first met.
But- Maybe. Just maybe.
Maybe there was a chance for him to also be a mutant? That would be so much easier. Though he would've told you, right?
I'm holding out my hand for apocalypse drippings. I'm reeling in eucalyptus aromas. I'm wandering through perpetual summer, and the streets are overpopulated with loose thinking burnouts, skinny and unwashed. Pseudo-zombies holding out their hands for fragments. Fatigued souls with shitty parents and downward mentors. Unhappy laughers, overdosing on summer. Shallow lovers holding out their hands in the darkness of sunshine, asking me for change. Me. A drifter from the north; a vagabond blowing through the overcrowded streets; a child of God, abundant in winter, overflowing with snow and cold, holding out my hands for a little extra summer.
People living in cubicle. People living in deserts. People living in storming snow. They are all people trying to make a place for themselves in this world which we call beautiful. People need to know who they are and what they are here for. Time does not stop for anyone. People need to figure out things before it's too late.