Memories, poems and cry in a dusk

Step by step thinking about my life.

Who I am, how I became who I am now.

It is not like the current me came out of nowhere.

I wonder if I do it because my life is going to the end

or maybe just the new phase is about to start...

I look at things I liked.

Things that were important for me.

And what do they mean now.

Things I was collecting,

I was playing with,

drawings I received from my friends, old concert tickets.

Was war das?

Eine Kranke? Eine Hexe?

Das was eine Fremde

Who was it?

Someone ill? A witch?

This was a stranger.

- I found written in my old notes.

I loved this quote from the Polish novel 

The stranger by M. Kuncewiczowa.

I was considering it a lot of times.

Who I am?

Am I ill? Witch?

Where do I come from?

Do I come from Mars?

Because wherever I go I feel like being a foreigner...

I also read my old stories, old poems.

I see the signs of the current me 

between words written many many years ago.

Some of them are too intimate

but a few examples.

As a teenager I was in a poetry club

and wrote quite a lot poems.

Some of them even got published.

My poem leaflet. Mirror reflection

The collection of poetry where my poems were included

I see my love for the things that do not exist, for utopia,

I see looking for perfectionism.

My idealism is floating in every poem.

The search for Platonopolis.

For blue roses of Novalis.

I see the kid who imagines world

as Louvre museum,

huge but with all walls left empty.

The kid feels obligated to fill them with beautiful paintings.

I see the junior high school kid

trying to create its own philosophy.

The belief in ideal love of two people

destined to be together

connected with souls

which with time I stopped believing in

but lately I experience in my own life.

I also see my strong religious belief 

which I have already lost many years ago.

I see loneliness.

The strongest one when I was among improper people.

I see the feeling of being different, strange,

permanent consciousness of not fitting in.

 Way to fulfillment

Firstly decisiveness 

in steps of curious tourist

as on a way toward paradise light

hidden deep in a tunnel

Fatigue extinguishes zeal

tempts with the thought of a rest

there are no stops

even though shadow of forest

surrounds the strengthless figure

Brightness of glade

strengthens the vigorous of steps for a while

goal still bathed in oneiric mist

moves like a horizon

The letter to thiefs 

You are taking me everything 

what I have

what I had

what I could have

Just leave me a drop of sorrow

shred of human feelings

bunch of emotions

let me tighten them in my hand

neutralisation reaction leave to chemists

Let me shiver

feel fear

even pain

Leave the source of life

But do not leave emptiness

because for emptiness

there is no place

or time

I like naked sadness.

I like crying in a dusk.

wrote 10 years old me...