Diary of thoughts

  My partner, Rick, was complaining about his sore knees—they’d been bothering him the entire previous shift. After we returned to Winnipeg, he went to the doctor, who put him on sick leave, which meant I’d get a new partner. And so it happened. My new partner was from India, named Arvin. He’d been working in security in Canada for nine years, but with a different company. When his company’s contract for that site ended, the staff was let go, and he had to find a new job. We first met at my company’s office to discuss our trip with the management. Arvin was a dark-skinned man in his middle years, of average build, about a meter seventy tall. There wasn’t anything particularly striking about him—I think in India, he’d blend right into a crowd. The only thing that stood out a bit was his very bulging eyes. In the office, he was very friendly. We exchanged contact info, discussed the trip details, and went our separate ways. When we finally started working together, I noticed he tried...

  At some point in my life, I decided to experiment with what I eat. I love eating—more accurately, I love gorging myself. Especially food I cook myself. I never follow recipes when I cook; I usually take some basic idea from them and then add whatever I think will go well together. But that’s only when I want to make a specific dish, which is rare. Usually, one main ingredient is enough for me to build from. For example, I have a chicken breast. First, I imagine its taste in different cooking methods—how it would taste boiled, fried, baked, or stewed. When I realize what I’m craving at that moment, say, baked chicken breast, I start thinking about what else I’d like to bake. I love potatoes in any form, and they go well with chicken, so the main side dish ingredient is settled quickly. But chicken breast isn’t very juicy, so it’d be nice to make a sauce. Mushrooms go well with potatoes, and chicken would taste better with them too, so I’d fry some mushrooms with onions and pour in...

  A few days ago, I was trying to teach my mom how to send voice messages. It was tough—Mom didn’t want to figure it out. She’d press something, and if it didn’t work, that was it, no other options. After many attempts, she called Dad, and they managed to sort it out. The next day, she sent me a voice message: “Hi, everything’s fine here, how are you? Have you eaten? Are you at work right now?... Got it. So you’re working for another week and then heading back?... Yeah, got it. You can’t talk right now?... Okay, then another time. Dad was asking if you could talk on video, but I told him you can’t, so we’ll talk on video when you get home. Alright, bye.” When I listened to it, I couldn’t understand what was happening. It was a conversation with me, but without me. My mom was asking me things, answering for me, and believing it far more than she usually believes what I actually say. Yes, I’d eaten, yes, I was at work, but she didn’t know that for sure. As for going home, it was uncl...

  As usual, I was walking around the shopping mall. Two cleaners worked there, both from the Philippines. Passing by one of them, he smiled at me, I smiled back, and he said something. Not quite hearing him, I came closer. He asked if I was bored. I said not at all, and he was very surprised. Sure, from the outside, my job might seem boring, and maybe it even is, but since I’m often lost in my thoughts—usually about something good and interesting—I don’t get bored. We started talking about mundane things and our home countries. When we talked about food, I was surprised that they usually eat rice three times a day, while he was shocked that in Ukraine, people don’t typically eat the same dish every day for their whole lives. Overall, there weren’t that many differences, since the Philippines is also a poor country, maybe for similar corrupt reasons. He said he really missed home, where his wife and young daughter were waiting for him. His friends and entertainment, which just don’t...

  When I got laid off from the metal-plastic window factory, I went on unemployment benefits and could calmly wait for a new job. I liked this kind of vacation. I wasn’t worried about work at all; somehow, I just knew it would come. About two months into my break, in the middle of the night, I heard banging and some shouting. A woman’s voice was yelling, “Mark, open the door!!!” The banging was so loud that at first, I thought it was at my door. I checked the time—it was two in the morning. I got out of bed, got dressed, and went to the front door. When I opened it, about two meters to my right, I saw a woman. She was sloppily dressed in slightly dirty clothes, with tangled, greasy hair, and her face was covered in snot and drool. She was heavyset and pounding on my neighbor’s door with her big fists. When I stepped out, she gave me a quick glance and continued her tantrum. I asked her what was wrong and why she wouldn’t stop—half the floor was already awake, but my neighbor still ...

  After sorting through my situation with Aura, I decided to write her one last letter. Though I thought I’d accept any outcome after she read it, deep down, I desperately hoped to talk to her. And that hope blinded me. In the letter, I wrote that I’m unpacking my past and seeking redemption and forgiveness for what I did. I thought that if she forgave me, it wouldn’t be hard for her to reply, and if she hadn’t, talking to each other would be better for both of us. I wrote about that too. I sent the letter to the accounts I could access; I didn’t know where I was blocked, so I could only hope she’d receive it. But the next day, I was sure she got it. In Telegram, the chat with her disappeared. When I tried to find it, I saw she’d deleted my message and blocked me. Instead of reacting calmly, as I expected from myself, I was gripped by growing anger with every second. This could only mean one thing—she still hadn’t forgiven me and didn’t even plan to, even though two years had passe...

  It was an ordinary workday, during which nothing important or interesting happened. Or rather, something did happen, but it was only important to me. As usual, I walked around the shopping mall, sometimes sinking into my thoughts, sometimes trying not to think at all to rest from them. A couple with a stroller, holding a tiny infant, was walking toward me. As I passed them, I glanced at the baby for a second, looked into its eyes, and it was like a bolt of lightning struck me. Its gaze. It was so pure, so untainted, so unbiased. There was no pain, no joy, no regrets, no expectations, no courage, no fear—nothing in its eyes. It looked at the world with an all-encompassing gaze and saw things as they are. I only looked at it for a second, but that second was enough to plunge me into reflections that I’m now writing down. What if we’re supposed to keep that gaze? I’ve already thought about how most people seem to have someone else’s gaze. They don’t try to be themselves; they try to...

  It was my second day working as a security guard at a shopping mall in a small town in northern Manitoba. My partner and I arrived at the site, and our first task was to do a patrol (checking all the points located in different parts of the mall). Each point had an NFC chip that needed to be scanned through a mobile app. There were many points, so I volunteered to go alone to memorize their locations faster and better. One of the closed but still guarded areas was an old two-story hotel. It had plenty of interesting spots: a kitchen, storage rooms filled with junk, a bar, something like a conference area, service rooms, and, of course, lots of guest rooms. To remember where all the points were, I was as focused and attentive as possible. When I climbed to the second floor via the side emergency exit stairs, I felt something strange. After taking a few steps down the corridor toward the opposite exit, the feeling intensified. I didn’t understand what was happening and stepped slow...

  Today, I dreamed of Aura. At first, she was cautious with me, but in the end, she managed to forgive me, and it made us both feel lighter—especially me, because I was really glad about it. This dream means I still haven’t forgiven myself for everything I did. Maybe I could if I talked to her, but after what I did, I fell so low in her eyes that she probably wouldn’t even want to think about hearing from me again. This story begins in my teenage years, but it should start with meeting Aura. Back then, I was living in Poland, wanting to be a cool businessman and make lots of money. I achieved part of that dream because my friend and I had a small construction business with a fluctuating staff of 10-15 people. We took on various jobs: interiors, facades, roofs, demolition, restoration, cleanups… I mainly handled the people, organizing the work process, and bookkeeping, while my friend dealt with clients, materials, and equipment. And though it sounds decent, for some reason, we neve...