Weronika Donovan is an amateur writer and photographer. She's an artistic soul. She was born in Poland, where she was brought up and educated. Her adventure with writing began in her late teens, but she started blogging only ten years later. Her poetry has grown since that time. She started to use words more consciously. She defined the journey of her life, portraying it in four volumes of poetry. First of them called 'Ghosts' was self-published in 2019.
Weronika is a loner. She likes wandering to interesting places, always choosing her own path.
It happened. Officially, I’ve become one of potatoes.
I’ve got what I asked for, what I wanted. Partially, at least.
How do I find it?
I just wanted to be independent and live the way I wanted. Earning money, though, has taken up all my time. I’ve been stolen the hours that I’d been putting aside all my life. What do we even need money for?
Where am I in all this?
Leaving at dawn, coming back at dusk I’ve lost myself in the time week after week it’s playing tricks on me and I’m too tired to say ‘good morning’ rotting in bed for long hours.
Some time ago I set myself a goal. I’d been so certain about it, about what I wanted. Everything had gone wrong, though, and I was still hanging tightly on that perfectly written song, I did not allow to make it happen. I stepped back because I was afraid that everything would fell apart. And then it did.
Now I know that I’ll never get rid of fear and insecurity. I have to move forward no matter what.
Walking along the paths of my broken dreams, I’ve felt lonely. I felt like I needed someone next to me. Just to hold me. That’s all…
Even though I was always lost and always alone with my thoughts, I enjoyed my solitude. I’ve been on my own since I remember. I don’t mind it. I am my own best friend.
But lately… I wished some company. Someone I could watch the sunrises with. Someone I could hug with on the sofa while watching a movie.
I’m sitting on the kitchen floor, listening to the water drops dripping from the tap, and I’m thinking whether they already know or not.
Have they found out this evening? Do they really give it a second thought or they’re too busy with their own lives?
People who know you for many years, like your family and friends, they already know what you are, so being with them you can simply be you. But people who you’ve met recently, they know nothing about you. Therefore, being around them is more difficult because you don’t really know how to be… you.
There is too many questions, too many talks, too many odd looks, too much lack of understanding.
I know I am different, I can see that, I cannot explain that. But also I don’t want to change that. Force myself to fit in.
The other day I watched a movie called ‘The Milk of Sorrow’. Sad and dramatic as it was, it somehow explained something that was happening in my life.
Even though my mother told me that she wanted to have another baby [me], I found it hard to believe that this was true. Feeling, what I’ve been feeling for all those years, I still hardly believe it.
I’ve always felt unwanted.
It didn’t matter what people said about me. Good daughter, loyal friend, diligent student. I’ve always felt like I wasn’t supposed to be here. Being around all those happy people, brought me down even more. To the point where the only thing I want to do is to pick flowers in heaven.
Tell me, Mother.
Bitter have I become, drinking the milk of sorrow.
I’ve planned my whole life. I wanted to get a job that I was good at and I wanted to move out of the town that I didn’t like. Every day, I imagined myself living far away from here in my new home and doing things I like. Simple, isn’t it?
How could it all fall apart? The job limited my creativity, people were talking on and on. My new home was made from paper, easy to burn down. The town was rotten to its roots, wouldn’t grow a single sunflower.
Where am I now?
What do I want?
I want to wake up in the morning and watch the mist clear above the woods and fields, drinking coffee on a patio.
I want to leave the house at dawn and climb a mountain only to watch the sunrise.
I want to drive somewhere, for the sake of driving.
I want to leave the house at sunset and walk the streets of a town, watching it fall asleep, waiting for lights.
My mother has told me lately that I lost the joy of life. I thought: ‘Oh, have I?’ She made me think about what ‘joy’ really means. Is it joy when you pet your dog, and he jumps on you and licks your face? Then you laugh and beg him to stop.
Or is it joy when you put a smile on, pretending that you’re happy because you’ve just started a new job.
Can you tell the difference? Can you recognize it?
I don’t understand how some people can smile and be joyful all the time. Nice to everyone around them. That must be draining… because are they really? Are they really like this when no one is looking?
Have I lost the joy of life? No. In order to lose something, you have to own it in the first place.
Last week I picked a chair at one of the neatly organised desks and folded some paper, so I could write numbers in columns. Soon after, the numbers blurred away when my eyes started daydreaming.
I was sat there, looking out the window, where the wind was free and he led the leaves to their destination. I shouted after him, but the glass was soundproof. I wanted to catch him, but my fingers were stuck by glue.
Why didn’t I feel content when I’d chosen this room myself?
I looked around me, at the people bent over the desks. Nobody saw it, nobody listened. I made everything up in my head. Again.
I looked at the people and I envied them. Their simple minds, simple jobs, simple lives. They’re grateful for their jobs. They’re happy to be alive, surrounded by the loved ones. That’s all what mattered.
What is there that I’m looking for? Bored already by the plainly written words on the folded sheet of paper. What is there?
I look in the mirror and I see my face. I know what it looks like. I know my name. I know where I was born. But I still don’t know who I am.
Once, I was told that I was just a tramp. Trash. Nobody.
I believed them.
I’ve been struggling my whole life to believe that I am actually worth something. I feel unwanted and pushed down to the bottom, despite my skills and knowledge I meticulously acquired. I feel unworthy everyday.
Every day I swim in the oceans too heavy for my soul.
There once was a drop of water, who had lived on a small leaf near to the ground. She spent there all days disappearing silently into the air at night and appearing again in the morning as dew. Always sitting on the same leaf.
One day, the wind whiffed low and gently brushed the leaf with the drop of water on it. The wind stopped there swirling around.
‘What are you doing here, drop of water?’ he asked.
‘I live here, that’s my home,’ she responded.
‘Why is that? Shouldn’t you flow with the stream?’ the wind couldn’t understand.
‘No, it’s dangerous,’ she said.
‘Shouldn’t you pour down with the rain?’
‘No, that’s too much risk.’
‘Shouldn’t you create waves together with the ocean?’ the wind kept asking.
‘But… I’m scared.’
‘Why are you scared of who you are? Stream, rain, ocean… these are what you’re meant to be.’
‘Of course, these are what I’m meant to be. I am water. I could be anywhere. I just choose to be nowhere,’ the water said and hid behind the leaf.