When I was little, it was inconceivable to me that anyone could be anything but friendly to anybody else and that anyone could wish ill will on anyone around them. I would imagine some common cause that was indefinite but somehow obvious for everyone, one that would not leave any doubts as to what, how, and when should or should not be done. As time passed by, I gradually started to allow for deviations, but I still did not understand how anyone could fail to recognise and confess immediately any of their failings or misdeeds, if they were ever to happen, perhaps only by chance. In the face of the mounting evidence that things might actually be different as well as facing so many disappointments, including ones with my own self, this insight has been slowly and inexorably eroding, moving towards the opposite pole. I think I’m somewhere in the middle of the way now, maybe a little past the half-way point. The very thought that I could leave the equator far behind me and, eventually, maybe, reach the other pole, fills me with dread. Even if it were to mean turning away from – if I may call it that – the true truth, I prefer to resist this tendency. I’d rather be an idiot.

I fantasise about a sailing yacht. About rough seas and silence, and silence on rough seas, and simple necessity amidst the hurricane. Heave-ho.

(transl. Magdalena Małek-Andrzejowska)