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They told me – Room 32

At the beginning they told me that I shouldn’t worry about you and start to function normally, although the conviction that I am nothing without you and I have no chance to organize my life was heard clearly in their voices.

Perhaps they had a bit of a point. After this what you had done to me, I went crazy. I dropped out of college, you know. I forgot about obligations. Sweet lack of prospects to develop in any direction welcomed me. I thought that it would last at least a couple of years.

It was a disaster. At times. In the end the landlord of the room occupied by me contacted me and being very dissatisfied picked up my keys.

I’ve only got a clapped-out van standing for several years on the property of my parents and your old cottage.

When I told them about my idea, they told me that my whole life had been blighted in a magic way at the time when I decided to spend two weeks in your completely empty apartment. They pigeonholed me. I was an idiot, a prisoner of the place from which I wasn’t supposed to run away.

The walls, the leaking roof, the smell of varnish. It had never belonged to me. But I decided to fight for it when you left, taking everything I had. I had nothing left to lose.

Thus, I was browsing your frighteningly white, unpainted canvas for fourteen days, I was drinking tea on the porch, looking at the weedy garden and reading magazines found in the bathroom. Wind maliciously blew my hair on my face, and every object whispered that I should leave your house and focus on this how much you hurt me, and then surely I should commit suicide in a room stinking of dampness at the outskirts of the city.

A great plan for someone like me. Without hope.

Then they told me that actually they always liked you, and they agreed with you in a few issues. They admitted that it was the right thing when one night you put the idea of coming back to writing out of my mind. Do you remember? You shouted that I was funny and you came back to priming one of your paintings. You were muttering something with a cigarette in your teeth, then you didn’t come to dinner when I called you and you cancelled some of our meetings.

When I returned to the city, they told me that you called them several times and they reminded me that in fact you were a really decent guy; I shouldn’t have complained about you so much. They didn’t pay attention to the tears gathering at the corners of my eyes, they also disregarded my story of how you didn’t let me fulfill a dream and how you only screamed and screamed all day.

By the end of their visit, I felt like a huge marble statue, with my head in the clouds. The whole world was so far away that I didn’t hear anything people bustling somewhere down in my kitchen thousand less said.

The moment they left, I became smaller. I stared at the ceiling with a strange feeling of emptiness and a piece of porcelain in my hand. It was a part of your favorite cup, which I shattered on the floor during my shortened holiday outside the city.

Then, I was sitting in your ridiculously large studio, looking at brushes and dusty cans of paint. I looked at the works that you created, when we were still together. And you know what? All of them are awful. They are absolutely terrible. You are a terrible artist. You can’t paint.

But in spite of all this, you did it, and you forbid me to write, claiming that I would only have wasted time. I could say now that you were unfair and you don’t deserve to be related to anyone, but somehow I admire you.

The next day they told me that although you were stubborn and despite the lack of talent you pursued your goals, I shouldn’t do it.

But now I don’t care.

I have written all of this with a new typewriter.
Mleko, Room 32

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