I am stuck in a traffic jam, happy as a lark that I am moving, going in the right direction, not the other one, which might also be right, but not for me, maybe for someone who would like to, for example, have something to eat, but I have already eaten, and I am going to eat later, but in the meantime, I have to do something else.
Stuck in this traffic jam, on a tram which is not mine although I fancy such a box of tricks and I am wondering whether it is possible to come to an agreement with city authorities and buy a tram and use it in the city, taking commuters or not, leaving it half-way, watching people get furious, the entire city immobilised, and I am wondering how much I would have to pay for such organised chaos.
Anyway, I look at those people who are my companions in misery on this tram, that guy who, unfortunately, is not garden fresh, is past his prime, is not having the time of his life, when he just urinates on the tram floor, effectively creating an impenetrable barrier within two metres around himself, which I envy him a bit, as other people crowd to the other part of the car and start to push me in the face and the internal organs with an interesting combination of umbrellas, laptops, and elbows, because for a guy in a so-called whacking hat, there is nothing more important in such a crowded place than watching the highlights of the latest game between Lechia and Legia.
In this chaos, with this man within the barrier, this umbrella between my ribs, the elbow on my face, and Legia’s attack on the Lechia’s goal, nice and neat by the way, I think that this is my adult life, in its full ambiguity, with its range of experiences, being crushed in the crowd, ever‑present distractions, and dealing with the urine of dogs, one of which I decided to buy when I grow up, or children shooting streams of urine without understanding the significance of excreting it with the necessary discretion.
Thus, I have realised that nurturing my inner child, sad and ugly but also curious and willing to explore the world, should be more important than my credit history, than making supplies for the next three weeks on a Saturday evening, than choosing an outfit for an evening out, because when that child grows up and goes to college or to work, I will stay all alone in this hole, and it will not be funny anymore.
