“You’ll think this is a bit silly, but I’m a bit–well, I have a thing about birds.” “What, a phobia?” “Sort of.” “Well, that’s the common term for an irrational fear of birds.” “What do they call a rational fear of birds, then?”

“I wish I were more of a person and less of a bird”, I say out loud in the dark. My cat moves on the pillow next to my head so I stroke the space between her ears. She makes a sound that resembles a melody from my forgotten country and falls asleep again. I think about departures and running away. For a moment, when the cat pushes her paw into my neck, I think about her and how I am not such a great care-taker: how I don’t carry her in embrace and rather on my shoulder if at all; how I don’t play with her much apart from the time when I throw my pens across the room. On the other hand – it seems she is all right with that – she doesn’t like to be held or baby-talked to. Nurture vs. nature, I guess. Her tail lands on my face so I move away. It’s a big bed, double I presume, and there is two of us – there is enough space to sleep together yet apart. I am sure I must smirk when I try to imagine an extra person sleeping here with us… However – maybe they could reassure me I am not just a birdy and more of a human. Maybe there would be someone to stroke my empty bones and tickle with the fallen out feathers… I sigh and that alone makes my cat change the position once again. I stare into her black paw but don’t do anything this time. Seconds then minutes pass. I sigh again but nothing happens. Suddenly I think in panic that it’s already winter and I haven’t migrated south. When the morning comes it’s just empty shells and fallen out fur on my bed. I imagine I’m no longer.

“Your silence will not protect you.”

So I’ve been silent for a while – there are actually reasons for that, however every time I’ve considered writing why I am not writing I have either found myself lost in my own sentences or simply decided that I don’t want to.

In the most vague way it’s possible – my absence here was caused by the fact that I am no longer completely anonymous. Those who know that THIS IS ME are a handful of people really; less than the number of fingers on my hand – yet – an index finger too many. An index finger that points at me and with its fingernail scratches the inside of my skull…

So I have become silent (yet again)  – my middle finger to the world so to speak[1].

I might still be showing the finger, nevertheless – I have realized I no longer need to stay silent (after all – it’s always silent under the water). Ready or not, here I come…


[1] Or at least part of it.

“I mean, I don’t know how the world broke. And I don’t know if there’s a God who can help us fix it. But the fact that the world is broken – I absolutely believe that. Just look around us.”

I’ve been in hospital several months ago. I was sort of dying. I’ve woken up in the hospital bed, with plenty of monitors attached to me, several tubes sticking out from my body and with sad faces of my parents looking down on me. After a week I have signed papers that stated that I want to be discharged on my own demand. From that moment onward I’ve put a lot of time and effort to convince everyone around that I am better, that everything is all right and that no-one needs to worry about me. Don’t get me wrong – I didn’t go straight to the denial that anything happened, however – I have only touched the surface of it and in general – dismissed it[1].

I think it took me at least several months to get to the point, when one night it occurred to me: I NEARLY DIED[2] (and yes – -it appeared in my head written in capitals, extremely loud and unavoidably close). This is when I’ve realised that during all of that time between hospital and now, I have been spinning out, randomly losing it and following the messy path towards the ultimate entropy[3].

I don’t know if it actually could have been handled differently – maybe all of that tripping and falling and lifting yourself up and then learning how to walk again – maybe that had to be done – one way or another. Maybe, even if I would actually sat down at some point to simply cry and tell, even if only myself, how much all of this dying hurt me and how scared I was, maybe it still wouldn’t change a thing in the months that were to come… Maybe it would.


[1] in a way it was something that belonged only to me on that deepest and darkest level…

[2] I think it’s not even the notion of death that capitalised all of that (in the end, it wasn’t the first time) but rather the way I was dying on that occasion…

[3] I guess it’s still difficult to put all of that into words.