I am raw.
I’m naive.
I am innocent.
I have no memory of past.
I can create myself from scratch.
I can suffer and no-one will stop me.
I can grow and no-one will mind.
I can achieve and no-one needs to clap.
I can love if I choose.
I can hate if I please.
I can destroy or build.
I can lend a hand or leave.
I can fly high or sink deep.
Let’s say you don’t like watrobka anymore.
You go into a shop with your friend, who cannot read labels without glasses. You will be her eyes.
All shelves are full with watrobka. Products have watrobka on the outside, inside, sometimes watrobka is diluted inside a bottle. The friend is asking you what is written here, and there, and that place. The idea of buying watrobka seems just awful to you. Only you, nobody else has a problem. Everyone is walking like they own it, baskets filled.
She was looking into the dirty waters of river Thames, bending over bridge’s dirty racks. Her hair was falling down, being thrown all directions with the cold wind. One could not see her eyes. Only her red nose was popping up. Red as a berry. The waters did not seem to care at all. Just a gray, moving slowly, huge pile of connected closely drops. Not alone, not single. Only if she could be such a drop.
She stood back up, took a swift at her wet nose and showed her face to the cold. It was wet as well. She wouldn’t bother to touch her tear marks – she felt assured, knowing they were there – like jewels, proof of recent struggle, marks of her new wisdom.
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