Pages of my gayish life

Insignificant people are forgotten in a week [statistically], no matter how close the relationship was, and no matter that you are a human being and not a goldfish. Significant ones occupy memory corners and set up barricades against any form of hypnosis. Some professionals make psychiatric diagnoses from a few sentences of an email. Templates reigns in sick notes. Could someone scratch my soul over WhatsApp or Messenger? Something is wrong...

All of us are dying in fall, or we would rather die as the leaves fall, people in black suits hurry, when death will be so clearly written on their faces when pain and some feelings, probably sad, will play inside. Can you come up with your own death? Not the cause, the measure, the time of the year, just death. How's she? Comes while you sleep or while you watching TV, having sex or while you waiting for love. Maybe love is death, someone once said: "love - kills two and makes one." But we are not naive, we never think that we could die for love, even in dreams, our death is black, cold and full of other negative emotions, why? Why do we want to live cheerfully and die sadly? Why funeral, cemetery, death are a cult of sadness? I want, when the day comes, when I leave all of you, you to remember the things that brought you joy, I want to be JOY. Maybe people will be sad, they are so stupid if they manage to change their masks and fake one emotion after another, why not fa...

Sometimes I go out into the streets filled with the smell of food and whiskey, and the spaces filled with Polish, Pakistanis and other nationalities, without any purpose but just to remember how good it is to see and hear my surroundings. When headphones gets a temporary vacation in a backpack resort, I am flooded with the tiny euphoria of lightness and sweetness that I perceive only. Perfect audio-visual fusion. My Little Pakistan, a Warsaw colony with African spices and the weirdest English accent. Fast food rubbish under my feet, splayfooted princesses with joggers and fake UGGS, homeless people at the bus stop sharing a suspicious drink from a tiny plastic bag. Sometimes I use my city as an elixir of motivation, even accented consumerism does not make me nauseous, in those days it does not become the essence of modern melancholy. - What are they protesting about? (Wannabe Queen of Britain asks me by watching a group of fools with COVID-19 posters) - Oh .. you know Coronavir...