Blue

Two years ago, I was sitting in a cafe writing about the colour blue. I was writing about blue to conceal my discomfort at finding a blue pen in my bag instead of the black ink I usually write in. I wrote : “Blue is a mysterious colour. People looking up thought: ‘How did the sky become this blue? What makes it blue?’ Why did God pick blue to render the ceiling of earth? Blue eyes, blue seas, blue skies, these are all worlds existing on their own and reflect on eachother. If you look…”

When I was about to tell you to look, my pen slid on the paper and made a streak of blue. What stopped my writing about blue, was a friend who was standing behind my back watching me write. He wanted me to stop because writing about blue is dangerous. Then he wrote names of Polish poets
on a small piece of paper :

Zbigniew Herbert
Wiskawa Szymborska
Czeslaw Milosz

He was high, I was blue.