I have always suspected that the model autobiographer
would be a eulogist dwelling upon the preexisting innocence
and the final struggle to maintain its appearance, admitting that,
despite advising others to live with their eyes wide open,
he hardly ever dared to raise his gaze above the shadows
on the pavement, yet never asking forgiveness
for stepping on them.
Sometimes I have the same dream over and over again,
as if a turntable needle were stuck in the groove of a broken record
that would otherwise be an uneventful night. It wakes me up eventually,
and more often than not, I cannot get back to sleep.
Since tossing and turning makes no more sense than getting out of bed,
I choose the latter, and, trying to avoid the usual squeaky floor concerto,
I walk over to my desk.
To prevent the neighbours’ wrath, I’d rather not touch the typewriter
and settle for my good old friend, the fountain pen—or I would
in the pre-digital era, but sitting in front of a computer screen
doesn’t sound as romantic.
You see, it is all about keeping up the appearance of an artistic vibe.
After all, we are all occasional imposters.
Back in college, any time I complained about my lack of success in love, my friend used to say that every monster will find its amateur (this Polish proverb sounds much better in my native language because it rhymes). Truth be told, I always thought she was actually saying it for her own comfort because, with her being severely overweight and having a face that made you think of a hamster after a meal, what chance did she have of finding someone? It turned out that I couldn’t be more wrong. When I got to know her better, I saw that she was the life of the party, always surrounded by guys, swearing like a cobbler, and able to outdrink even the toughest of them. As she once told me, she couldn’t complain about the lack of intimate partners either. It was her fairly pretty yet terribly shy room-mate who was lonely, always in her shadow. I lost contact with both of them after college, but sometimes I wonder how their lives turned out. But I learned one thing from them: appearance may help you a little to make a good first impression, but in the end, what matters is who you are. If only I wasn’t that shy.
hidden pilcrow 