Xenna in English
If the whole world would be as gentle as the wind breeze in my hands, there would be no sad song.
I am sitting alone in a bar. The last customer left long time ago. For quite a while now I am the last customer. I stay until they close this shit-hole and than kindly ask me out.
Another cigarette, another glass.
My publisher after hearing the story about Xenna, and all the other women after her, said: “man, I live as long as you, but I never knew that sex can be so cool”. Truth was one needs to put some effort to it.
“So many girls, you must be lucky!”
Yes, lucky. But anyway what is the point?
I lost my love. I lost my Xenna. She is gone. Maybe she was just a myth, a silly dream about happiness, desires, memories, about youth?
Even though she is so far away, I still can smell her skin, the sent that I love the most of all, I can feel her heat, the only one that gives me shelter.
These are only illusions.
Now we are alone, glass and me, drowned in a DEAM light of a weak bulb, the bartender plays solitaire and checks the clock every other minute.
The midnight just passed. I have nothing to go back to. Fags are falling out of the ashtray, I feel numb, slowly I drift into a comatose state.
This is what helps me, vodka represses the consciousness, produces blissful carelessness.
I miss you, my Xenna, my little girl in a Discharge T-Shirt, running on the beach, wearing too big sun glasses, cheerfully trying to get me every time I run away.
I am still running away, I am slipping out from your arms, but this is not a game anymore, you’re loosing your patience, I can see the anger in your eyes, I know that in a second you will stop running, you will sit on the sand and hide your face in your hands, so I won’t be able to see the tears.
You are probably lying in a hammock now, on paradise like Playa Escondido, listening to the sound of warm Mexican waves.
There is seven hour time difference between us, for you the sun is only half way through its dusk, just above the ocean. There is 10.000 kilometres dividing us, but this is not at all a problem.
In three days I could be lying there with you, but I am sat here staring at the dirty stain on my table. And I know I won’t move.
You probably swear at me, my indecisiveness, my constant escape.
You are not a little girl anymore, and I’m not a rebelling anarchist, although it all feels like it was only yesterday.
We just left the concert, we’re holding hands running through Pola Mokotowskie. The night is warm, and you, always smiling you, are trying to chat up some strangers, I hold you real close; come on let’s make love, you say, and I don’t have to go anywhere, because I love you endlessly, now and forever.
I sit alone, empty head, empty heart. Stop envying me my publisher, there is really nothing to envy for.
More women, more stories, escapes, searches, disappointments, hopes. Yes, I have cool memories.
I can feed myself with the past and keep on running; I truly don’t know any other way. At least I’m not lying anymore. What else could possibly happen to me?
Looking for your reflection in another women’s face, for piece of you, my Xenna? For twenty years I’ve been feeding myself with your pieces. It wasn’t good, it wasn’t bad. It was damn apathetic. And apathy is like death.