Fucking Window – No Filter, No Bullshit, Dark Polish Blues

I was staring through this fucking internet window like a dumb idiot glued to a shiny screen, watching some perfect assholes pretending they’ve got everything figured out, while my own life was going to shit in slow fucking motion. Every goddamn night I scrolled like a junkie, thinking maybe I’d find something real, but all I got was digital bullshit, neon lies, and this rotten feeling that I’m the only loser without a fucking paradise.

Kurwa, I lost days, nights, weeks—I don’t even know where the fuck my time went. I just know I wasn’t living, I was watching, like some pathetic spectator jerking off to somebody else’s fake life.

Then one night I snapped.
Turned that shit off.
Silence hit me like a punch in the teeth. No likes, no cheering emojis, just my own fucked-up breathing in a room that suddenly felt like a coffin I built from my own procrastinated brain cells. And for the first time, kurwa, I realized: I was dead inside long before the screen went black.

So I walked outside the next morning without that plastic rectangle controlling my fucking soul. Cold Polish wind slapped my face like “wake the fuck up, chłopie”, and people walked past me looking like real humans – tired, pissed, alive – not fucking avatars sucking likes like oxygen. That shit felt… real. Ugly, but real.

But of course I slipped back. Many fucking times. Like a drunk crawling back to vodka yelling “just one more”. I opened that fucking app again, poisoning myself with perfect bullshit and feeling like a dog sniffing someone else’s dinner through the window. Every click felt like I was betraying whatever tiny piece of myself I just managed to fucking save.

But each time I crawled out again, a bit stronger, a bit more pissed, a bit more alive. Falling was part of it. Getting up was fucking harder. But that’s real blues, kurwa – not the nice guitar shit, but the “I’m dying and still fucking breathing” kind.

Then freedom came—not like angels singing, but like “I don’t give a fuck what these idiots post anymore.” I don’t give a shit where they travel, who they fuck, what coffee they drink, how tight their fake-filtered ass looks. My life might be messy, might be fucked, but at least it’s fucking mine.

From that moment, I started walking my own weird Polish road—dark, cracked, sometimes depressing as fuck, but at least I was walking, not watching. I don’t need to know what’s happening on the other side of the screen. That was never my world. That was just a shiny cage built from lies and filters, and I was dumb enough to believe it was gold.

Now I breathe without the screen telling me who the fuck to be. I bleed without filters, I smile without emojis. I fuck up, I fall, I rise—on my terms, nie ich.

And if sometimes I burn out—fine.
I’ve burnt out more times than I can count.

But now—kurwa mać—
I decide when I set myself on fire.