I am a unique specimen. Well, wait, I’ve heard this somewhere before. I’ve said it. Thought it. With pomp. Eyes closed. Brows raised in a Pierrot style. Suddenly, it seemed to me by chance that everything is not turning out the way it should for me to be happy. The gleaming whites of my boss’s eyes against his dark skin highlight his pupils burning with anger. What did I do for you to end up in my life? Where did I go wrong in my thoughts? When did I fail to love myself? Do men approach women on the streets? Do men approach women at all? And me?
I quietly trudge toward my slow, insidious, sticky reflection. And here it is, already riding me, covering my eyes with a plastic veil. You will leave for another city. And I won’t share your joy. I won’t jump on the bed with you like we did as children, I won’t throw pillows at you, I won’t pour you beer and pour myself wine. I won’t celebrate your next career move. And many other victories. I want to share your happiness. But I can’t. So, I rejoice for you over the phone, swallowing hot tears. I wanted to be with you in happiness and joy. But according to the rules, I have to be there in sorrow and grief too. But it seems my heart has shrunk. Any of your sorrow became mine forever, leaving you forever. And I left.
And I am left. With reflection on my neck. And somewhere deep in my consciousness, a long-passed mantra is crawling: “I am not a victim. I am not a victim.” And then, like a hedgehog, “Pook…” I am a victim. A classic specimen. And I realize it. I see it all, like in some absurd theater. Trudging along with my reflection in tow. Dragging it behind me like that burlak, the beloved fairy-tale image of the poor, beautiful, mute Eliza, who killed her delicate hands working for the ungrateful task of weaving nettle shirts, the played-out image of the poor orphan nibbling on a crust of black bread, sipping milk – my childhood night snack, my endless, beautiful men whom the malicious victim turned into enemies.
Who instilled in me the desire to be pitiful? To be pitied? A martyr, rejected by the world, rising against it? Where, tell me, is the root of this spiritual depravity, because of which I betrayed my family and the whole world, turning my husband into a traitor, bosses into frauds, society into a crowd that doesn’t appreciate me? When will this end, and more importantly, how do I end this?
And I’m sitting with Lenka, eating her chicken with mayonnaise and mustard. And Lenka radiates love for herself. In every word of hers, there is endless respect, acceptance, and appreciation. Not high. Not low. The kind of appreciation that exists, the kind that’s just right. And I look at Lenka, admiring her incredible ability to appreciate herself, because she is the only one she has. And around her, I feel—and I feel it too—that I am my own true builder in this world. And the reflection slides down the wall from the sixth floor into the water of the Indian river, to feed itself to the shore herons. And my eyes shine with joy because there is so much more I can still learn in this life.
And if only I could gather the strength to rejoice in my world. To see all those who love me and understand that I am not alone. To taste the true essence of the present moment of my existence. To let go of everything that doesn’t belong to me. To let the charm of existence return and fill every corner of my present.