28.09.2014

Tonight, the stars are clearly visible in the black sky. I think I can see fragments of constellations, although I don't know their patterns, but I know they are there. Individual stars become the corners of a trapezoid or triangle, or line up one after another in a straight line, as if they really existed right next to each other, drifting in a row of their cosmic existence like swans on the surface of a lake. Their light had a long way to travel before it appeared to my eyes that night, the night at the end of September. Cold, silent, promising again, and breaking its promises again. Silently, it flows on in time, swallowing everything that has passed, just as space swallows a streak of light until it becomes less and less distinct and finally disappears. Just as the stars have already disappeared, whose glow can only be seen now, even though they have long since ceased to exist. In this way, that glow has become its own opposite — a shadow, a memory of what once existed as something unique, and has universally faded away, confirming that there are no exceptions to this rule.

Before and after. Memory and anticipation. The present seems to be a constant effort of memories to build anticipation. A kiss becomes a promise of a kiss. If something is to return, it must first depart.

The clock in the kitchen ticks louder than it should, striking the nighttime silence with steady blows, barely comforted by the light bulb that bravely keeps us company. The cold window panes hold the reflections of shapes from inside the kitchen, as if forbidding them to go even a step further. They conduct selected sounds from the outside world, separated by a boundary carved out by the noise of the clock.

A knife and a wooden cutting board cast shadows on the table, distorted by the limp softness of the tablecloth's folds. In this silence, even shapes begin to resonate with their distinctiveness. Instead of classifying and separating sensations, sensory perception allows them to come closer to each other. Sounds brush against the edges of objects whose geometry seems to melt into oblivion, eagerly engaging in this inter-qualitative flirtation. Scents cling to surfaces, trying to retain the memory of themselves for as long as possible.

Twelve fifty-five slips smoothly into ten. How extraordinary it is to feel the passage of time. Elusive, painful, unbelievable. And the night — still flowing with it, swallowing every letter of my thoughts, which for a moment tried to survive, transformed into words.