Letters.

I had a dream about O, that he was a debut novelist. He had a stand at the church. Copies of his books were on the table, along with some other books, I guess they were there to show literary inspirations. He was talking – and presenting with gusto, although he was clearly excited and a little intimidated. There were quite a few people there, including prominent church personages. I approached, wanting to buy his book, but he insisted on giving it to me. I was both a little proud of him – and a little bit embarrassed. And then a series of other events took place, some conversations, some attempt at a sexual assault on me, some panic-stricken escape, a wound in my hand, and as a result of all that, I found myself at a pharmacy. In the room next to the pharmacy – it was O who was changing his clothes there after the meet-the-author session. He took no interest in my injuries. The medicine I bought at the pharmacy healed my wounds at once. That is the normal course of events, it is time. I’m choking on that thought, but I have languished long enough already.


I made it out of the woods with the Tale. Sore and scratched, I’m walking the remaining distance and I see my goal clearly now. This clarity is a little deceptive; I won’t be able to jump to reach it. But the road ahead is relatively simple and quite well-trodden. I’m still stumbling a bit; I’d love to fall into a roadside ditch and fall asleep, but no. Sleeping in a ditch in the sun is foolish. I will reach my goal and then I’m going to rest a little. Very little.


I will be writing a letter today. I have written a few letters recently, but not much good came out of them. Maybe today’s letter will produce better results.


(transl. Magdalena Małek-Andrzejowska)