This post is also available in: polski (Polish)

The door to my house is blue. In the hall, yellow sneakers would like to go somewhere, but no one puts them on. Only the orange rocks from the painting by Roderic O’Connor look at them.

Loneliness spreads like the sea in the room, in the bathroom, in the kitchen. The wind intensifies thoughts and weaves them in my hair like paper of chocolates from last Christmas. I don’t know which one I would like to eat? I don’t know if I would like it.

There are the voids inside me.

A shopping list carefully written for two days is kidnapped by fear. I’m staying with something completely different. When my boat wobbles, I start to look for silence, with my cat on my knees.

The sound of the singing bowl is like a path through a bright grass.

My dreams are imprinted in moist moss. I open my eyes and get up to hang the laundry.

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