I visited some of the places where I grew up. I don’t live far from them now, but they seem distant. More and more distant, in fact, like points in the expanding space. Visiting them is pretending. I pretend to be there. I just look out the train window, pretending I can stop or go back. I see only a fleeting bright trail with its contours blurred; the more directly I look at it, the faster it disappears into the darkness. So I have to watch furtively, somewhat indirectly. Directly is forbidden.
It would have been better not to look, but I’m bored, nothing is happening on the train. The only thing that makes the ride dynamic is the shifting and disappearing background outside the window. The movement is ostensible – and yet it is hard to look away. So I continue to look. I pretend to be going from a place to another place, that I used to be in places and I've been in places, let it be. I also quickly forget that I'm going from nowhere and for nothing. I get carried away by the illusions offered by the view outside the window. I don't want them to disappear too quickly, I get attached to them. And I have to pay for it. The ride itself is free, but the entertainment is not. Pay per view.
So I get entertained. Everything is on fire, so I get warm by the flames, why not. I pretend I'm not the one getting burned. I add fuel to the fire, cautiously at first, then more and more boldly. I don't see anything wrong with that. Quite the opposite, at least it’s warmer and brighter here. But that fire does not illuminate the darkness all around. There is nothing that could reflect the light. But it is burning very beautifully.
(transl. Magdalen Małek-Andrzejowska)