Gwiazdy i Lk | Hunches at Night Watch

Text and music by Bruno Janiszewski

Come night, he is out, stealing furtively through the streets. Clad in nocturnal apprehension falling from the stars which scream here as much as they scream being there, within heavens orbs. The night is thickening, impregnating surroundings with shimmer-silence and vaguely dormant wind. He wears black. Black everything. Seen many times rushing on a bike, encircling those same streets on the outskirts of a town. Windows of the houses are expecting his black vision see the light that is about to burn out, and he observes, capturing and colleting the signs he sees, constructing a map of premonitions and dark corners in his mind. He has images stored somewhere deep within his memories with which he strives to unravel the mystery of his being. He senses things for which words are to no avail. He circumscribes the lines; traverses them hundreds of times boundless maps within limited physical representation. He knows not where the beginning is, yet the end appears equally unclear as the beginning. Eternally suspended within his delusions. But what does eternal even stand for?

He has been seen riding on his bike and taking pictures of the streets and everything that happened to be erected on it. Multitudes of pictures depicting the same places, taken from the same angles layers of misunderstanding and hints of the truth going away, then being closer for a second, but still drifting away at some magical rate. The pictures superimposed one onto another, with a resultant being all drowned in even deeper darkness, blackening into ever blacker void. But what if each actualization of a given picture is in fact the only thing that helps him to be in an illusionary closer relation to all those inklings to which no answer but a mental meditation can be given? What makes you think you are safe? What if silence revealed a mute scream, echoing against all those sable curves and corners from which accumulated fears hence start to wander towards you, dragging an all-covering veil of oblivion? In black forest, it is held that an abandoned circus glares at night through the trees swathed by the November fog. Inside there are Baroque lamps swaying back and forth, casting light through the holes in the purple tent. The furore of a far-gone audience can be heard, entangling itself with a clowns laughter and a back-shifted circus march or waltzes. It is no good to be near here. Ghosts of the past and haunted remembrances are easily reinvigorated upon visiting these sites. And the people are completely in a trance-like rejoicing, to the point they

drown out the essence of their being black clouds swarming profusely and drearily against the ceiling, exponentially dropping down and eventually covering the entire frantic scene. Elephant men and trained animals soon disappear in all their gloom. And the fog slides on the drapes, still remembering all of it. It is not there now, yet it still lives. I cannot believe it, yet it still breathes and is ready to encompass everything in its devouring maniac darkness. He has taken many pictures of the buildings that are no more. He wages the state of their being and non-being; which one is true and which one is not, and how to find a passage between them. People used to be enclosed within walls which were given specific meaning within space, which was solely devoted to the meaning introduced by its inhabitants. It was a space defined by specific people and no other than them. Suffering and happiness engraved onto the walls. Now it is all disclosed and ceased to exist, merely floating very dimly in the nearspace. But even this remaining space is by now gone, as thousands or billions of air and dust particles layered and substituted the now-forgotten meaning. Desacralization of the things true. Dolls without eyes and paintings in frames are no more. Where are they? Does it matter that they were there just as probably many other things before? Wheres memory shining bright, enthroned and sacred?

He still deciphers these streets within which all he wants indwells. In spasmodic outbursts of his mental condition, he rushes feverishly on his bike, inhaling the air as if thus exposing himself to the truth of the place. Rushing, he refreshes his deep-hidden soul, and everything around comes to life glittering yellow-blue aura mingles itself with another foggy and colourful auras. They enter his system and everything dissolves. Let everything blissfully dissolve and therefore exit decay. He sees sleep-embraced houses in which he envisages people lying in their dim rooms lit only by a small bed lamp and listening half-attentively to the sounds coming from the music box. Nostalgia merges with the darkness whirling outside the window. Everything is lost, but the nature of loss is innately good. No reason to be sad about it, though people with their persistent predilections will always perceive it as something horrid. Slumber-laden houses and he night-watching them. Somebody is sleeping now. Probably everyone but few persons are sleeping now. But he feels some universal conviction that he has to be awake in order for others to be asleep. But soon this notion of universal responsibility leaves him and he is back on his own with his wolves howling somewhere among tall trees. They howl and they know. But he is still trying to know.

People thinking of churches at night. Moonlight falling through the outline of the window, reaching the floor. Cold blue light reaches sacred silence. Moon is up there in heavens. Its light sees the wounds of Jesus and his eternally suffering face. People thinking of churches at night and their shelter is here. Pale statues and a pale altar touched by a cold blue light of the Moon; and you can inhale sacred air. He does not count nor run any journals documenting his moves. He is just a night-watcher of his undone existence. Constantly undone and constantly questioned. He fears daylight may put his actions into doubt. Social networks very easily stimulate certain behaviours which are untrue to himself. People, intoxicated by not their own light but by something external, tend to negate someone elses light. He wants his own owness as much as possible. He wants to devour it and see permanent atmosphere of his own delusions. Exclusivity syndrome is what his system consists of. Covering the streets, all of a sudden, he notices a glowing bulb in the basement of a Communist-era large office block, now being home to furniture stores and empty rooms. Inside, two elder men are rapt in conversation. They are incapable of counting years and become silent to conjured-up occurrences. Someone died, someone disappeared, someone left and never returned. No sounds in the corridors. Sudden light on-switching and sudden

light off-switching. Quick glares lighting old wooden clocks and tattered broomsticks with dustpans. Hours striking for no one. Eyes filled with apprehension before each hour strikes. This building will be razed to the ground and what was unanswered will so remain. Nonexisting cemeteries of things lost. Universe stretches its arms in infinite expanse and gives eternal hope to everything here on Earth, which directly corresponds to that which is above. Yet human condition is always blind and deaf to things immortal, and that is the way we are. Nature is eternal and contains vestiges of the absolute light. I strive to see them. Probably it is something I have been looking for. Consolation in suffering and nurturing my delusions. Let make this silence holy and eternal. Night is not over yet and she is still mocking me and asking to accompany her. And he still reads the lines and looks for proper correspondences. He is night-watching those streets over and over, with the end not to be seen in this horizon-less landscape. Thousands of figures traversed, layered one onto another. These same layers are probably engraved somewhere up above there, among stars constantly changing cyclical laws.

My delusions are my dearest dreams and I want to keep them vague in the end.

24.08.2013, Mawa

Thank you.

http://gwiazdyilek.bandcamp.com sufferingastrid@gmail.com