Burgundy

When I first met her, she could only smoke cigarettes when she sat down. If she stood up, her legs would start hurting and she’d get sick to the point where she’d throw up. She told me she never took a job she liked, or studied a subject that interested her, because she was afraid to lose the things she loved if she wasn’t free to chose whether or not to do them. She always saw straight through someone, uncovering their value from the moment she laid eyes on them. She’d study the movements of their eyes, the way they held their hands when they didn’t use them, how they chose their words or didn’t. I suppose that’s part of the reason why people didn’t like her, or were afraid of her.

She wanted all or nothing. I guess that’s why she didn’t start studying for her exams until it was nearly too late. She left her hometown and settled in another continent, just to be closer the people she loved. It was easier that way. It was like she was cupping her hands, holding water without letting it slip out between her fingers, but she had to keep her eyes closed and follow her intuition: if she opened them, she would see the water, she would see how it constantly threatened to spill and drip and disappear, and she’d slip. She knew the water was there, but she could at no cost look at it. She never had a boyfriend. “I just don’t need anyone to feel better, not at the moment.” Her room mates said she’d come home after school and sit in her room the rest of the day, only coming out every once in a while to smoke on the balcony. I don’t think she even considered getting a boyfriend, but I can’t decide if it was because she was scared of being hurt, or losing a love, or changing herself.

Some people are like ships, and other people are like the lighthouses, guiding the lost and cold ones to a safe port. A ship is not complete without having been lost. A lost lighthouse, on the other hand, is a more rare sight. She told me one night at the balcony, four glasses of red wine under the belt and a full blown party going on inside, that she felt like she was thirty years old already. “I mean, I’m barely twenty one years old, but I’ve already moved to four differenct cities after I left home, I’ve slept with eleven different guys, I’ve been to the Louvre and the Ghetty and the Tate and that queen’s museum in Madrid and god knows how many others. I feel so fucking established.” She said she’d get dizzy when she sat down, feeling like the earth was spinning too fast and she was caught up in the inertial afterdrag, like when the subway is leaving the station and everyone sort of tips over.

Her favorite places were airports. “You have to sit and wait. Pause your life. You’re going to do only one thing, and that is sit and wait, get on your plain, sit and wait again. I especially love it when you’re in the air, ‘cause you’re completely unreachable up there. I like the risk, as well, you know. Everytime you get on a plane, you’ll either survive and live on, or you’ll die. It’s fifty fifty. Such a delight.” She didn’t like to discuss books, or movies, or art, which she loved most of all. She barely shared her music, and when she did, she mentioned artists she listened to when she was fifteen, because that was when people started to ask her about music and she kept her answers. She went to concerts alone. She also went to the movies alone, she drank in bars alone. I heard she had an affair with a married father of four once, in Brussels. Some director in the european union bureaucratics. Her room mates mentioned it once on the balcony, and she just smiled, laughed muffled and looked down at her cigarette. It’s been four months since she left the city. I’m sad that I can’t enjoy the privilege of being welcome in her company, but I’ve got to admit it, I’m also relieved as hell.

Complete Soundtrack

Somewhere in my head it’s buzzing but I can’t seem to find the switch to turn it off. I have never had any panick attacks, or gotten delirious, or completely swallowed by anxiety. I have always lived in a stable home. Like man, I don’t think any in my family were ever hit severely by disease until I was about 17 years old. Or more like it, I never acknowledged it before now. My friends had parents who got divorced and all I could think of was how annoying it was that they didn’t want to come over at my place anymore. I have always had a good mental health. At least that’s what I tell myself when I’m telling my life story to other people. Although sometimes I remember being thirteen and standing in the kitchen, holding up the sharpest knife, face puffy from crying, snot from my nose. But I don’t think too much about it.

I had a nice evening this night. I didn’t have too many moments where I didn’t know where to put my hands, and since the others were so loud and throwing themselves about, I didn’t feel as tall and out of proportions as usual. Although I must say, it sure can be ennerving to see those tiny little french girls, heads shorter than me, skipping around in body tight skirts and smiling with straight jaw lines. Luckily, no one asked me if I wanted to go out tonight. The girls I live with didn’t go out either. They asked me if I wanted to come tomorrow, but I’m going to see if I can get a message from the spanish girls and get invited to drink a beer. If not, I will most definitely not go out, not with the frenchs. Not tomorrow night. I just need this time alone, some space to let out my hair, relax my body, just melt into the room and sit still in my little bubble. Like now. I mean, if it wasn’t for this buzzing noise, it would have been a perfect evening.

I haven’t talked to anyone back home for a week. Usually, a week passes, maybe even two, or three weeks, between talking to them, but now something doesn’t quite click. I don’t know where they are. Or I do, I just don’t know what they are doing. I have a faint memory of the weeks before I left. I was thinking that it was a mistake to leave, that I am not stable enough. I feel like a nuclear power plant, you know. As long as I push the right buttons and keep my head straight I won’t have any emergencies. But if it happens, I’m not sure if I can get enough water to cool down the reactors, am I right? If we’d be in a bar right now, that’s the joke I would say, then smile a little sheepish at you and swirl my drink, attempting to be charming and a little bit drunk. You’d laugh out of duty and straighten your face and look at my friend. She’d be talking to your friend by then, who is more handsome than you: yeah, you’re very sweet, but he’s definitely smarter, and funnier, and that three-day-shave is really fitting to his jaw line. When you’d feel me up and slid your hand up under my skirt, I’d laugh and joke about how you really wanted my friend, and you would be quiet and eat me out so poorly I’d check my phone while you were under the covers making memories that would make you cringe for the rest of your life.

A thing that bothers me at the moment is when I see commercials with sound, and the background music is a song I used to listen to a lot: it might actually happen that I come across it on my ipod and play it. And then time goes by and it’s the background music to a car driving in the desert, or even better, a dramatic fanfare to a new super-efficient soap to use in washing machines. I try not to think about it too much. It’s not that annoying, it’s not even on the “small thing stuck between your teeth but you’re in public so you can’t grope your fingers in and dig it out so instead you feel uncomfortable as your teeth shift and your tongue runs over the spot repeatedly” level. It’s like the buzzing sound, in my head, you know? Just like the sound of a poor light bulb buzzing and scurring as you try to read a bad book on a cold tuesday night. Buzz on there, little buzz, get off on that mosquito aria. Who knows, maybe if I listen closely, it really is just a loud song played on a low volume. Maybe it’s the good but old song used as the background music in my life. Maybe it’s one of those small alarms going off in the nuclear plant, I joke on and get another refill.

les baleines

I’ve been constantly cold ever since I moved here. It’s been only seventeen days and I’m already smoking two cigarettes a day and engulfing myself in chocolate and beer. When I sit on the balcony a few minutes after midnight, pressing the cigarette butt into the ash tray, I feel like the world is tipping over and I’m falling into this black hole, but so far I have managed to ignore my loneliness and focus. I focus all the time now, not on work and books and things I have to do, but on my life. Back home I’m definitely not focusing on work, but my life is also diligently neglected. Here, I can at least gather the strength to look past the gray colors and look for some hope. I had a dream this night. I was in a boat with my family, the sky was bright blue and filled with massive clouds in white and gray, shaping the waves and letting in warm rays of sunshine. We were there in a boat on a lively ocean and someone shouted excitedly and a group of killer whales were jumping in the water around us. They smashed into the water and the waves rolled towards us and we were so thrilled as our boat tipped over. The ocean was so clear and blue and we saw the shadows of whales floating quickly around us in the distance. We held hands and floated like a chain and someone said underwater “Look out! A blue whale!”. It swam towards us, slowly and steadily like nature’s own calm, rock-solid steps in time, and we buckled our arms so that it wouldn’t softly hit us and part us, and I was at the end of the chain and I stretched out my arm as it swam past me and I let my hands across its skin and I breathed in even though I was under water. I remember something of my dream after that as well, something about getting out of the water and telling about the whales and calling my grandpa. It’s not important. I woke up at nine o’clock feeling as if I had slept for fourteen hours, even though I went to bed a few hours after midnight. I’m skipping my first class but then I’m gonna go. The people are nice but I can’t make myself interested in them. It’s not their fault. If anything it’s my fault, but I don’t feel bad about it. It feels gray. A dull, soft harmless gray. Everything feels like that right now. Like I’m living alone in a 100 store concrete building with no glass in the windows and no doors in the frames, drinking coffee and eating butter right out of the pack, wind so quiet it feels like it’s asking for permission to tug at your hair. I’m sitting in the subway trying to relax the muscles in my face, they always tense up when I’m with other people. It gets better.

drifter

Planning to stay all your life in those few days before going on a journey. Or in that space in january when nothing is important and you skip school just to lie in bed and feel good, dreaming about summer and going places and drinking at bars and talking about the differences between my country and your country. When you know what you’re going to have for dinner and you know who you’re going to hang out with on saturday evening. Temporary routines are the best ones. And you feel a little ashamed when you find yourself in the summer, in a foreign place, trying to enjoy the cold beer in your hand, but secretly you’re wishing with all your heart to be back in the safe space because it feels better. People exhaust you, no matter who they are. You ask them three times that evening if they have already visited the other city, because you can’t think of anything else to talk about. Cockroaches seek refuge under the bath tub and you feel the need to be cautious but you find that you’re not able to care at the moment. You drop your clothes on the warm tiles and start the shower and wonder why on earth you would go to this strange place when the water back home is way better. Going away just to come back. Suffering anxieties and separation just to feel the relief when you come back home, like a warm meal after a day of starvation. Babies are happy in their womb and scream when they’re let out, but the bossom of the mother is reassuring and confirming that there’s still a place like where they came from, all they need is faith. Placing the mirror next to your computer so you can remember what you are. Seeing other people’s insecurities and realizing they’re the same as yours, and despising and pitying and loving them for it. My eyes are so heavy lately and my head drops after sitting upright for barely five minutes. I can’t read a sentence anymore without falling out. My drawings are getting better, though. All of a sudden, I can draw perfect portraits. My dreams too have been strange, they’re so extremely casual. I dream that I’m watching episodes of my favorite tv show, or that I’m buying groceries and making dinner. Except for last night, when I dreamed about a boy I went to school with when I was thirteen. I dreamed that his parents had died and I didn’t know and he got very offended. I have never talked to him, not even when we went to the same school. He was the toughest boy in our grade, very handsome and super smart, too cool for school but he still went and got great grades. I haven’t seen him in five years but I checked his facebook last night and now he’s grown a beard and he’s playing guitar a lot and studying in the south of the country. It’s strange for me to remember so many of the dreams I have on weekdays, when I have little sleep. I’m a little excited for tonight’s dream. I’m feeling okay but somehow strange. Like there’s been something stuck in my teeth but it’s been there for so long I’ve gotten used to it and accepted that it won’t come out, so instead I’m straining my tongue so it won’t touch it and feel uncomfortable. I’m stuck in a sentrifuge. I’m stuck on a carousel where I used to ride the prettiest horse with glitter and jewels, but somewhere on the ride the carousel started to turn too fast and I got scared and crept off the horse when I was sure that no one was looking. Now I’ve crept to the edge of the carousel. I’m not thinking of getting off, but I think it’s safer to stay closer to the edge, in case something happens and I have to jump off. I’m just gonna hold tight onto the post next to me and cautiously watch the others. They’re making it somehow but I have no idea how. Maybe if I watch them long enough I’ll figure out how they handle the high speed and the tall horses. Maybe I’ll find out how they close their eyes but still see each other.

Time travels/travels time

When I was eleven, my grandfather celebrated his seventieth birthday by inviting all his children and grandchildren to a kind of spa resort in the north of Denmark. I don’t know if he paid for everything. That would be fitting, since he’s the type to wash plastic bags so that he can use them again, but he somehow also enjoys giving away large sums to his offspring. The memory of that holiday is like a memory of a dream you once had that was so surreal you just knew you had to remember it forever. Which you did.

It was raining and I wore rainboots. I have somehow managed to put wild roses in the memory, which is strange since my grandfather was born in january, but then again all my memories of our holidays in Denmark are mixed together in a large warm soup. It fits, anyway. We spent the daytime walking around the sandy hills near the shorline, or in the swimming pool with the big slide and the chlorine smell. It was at the end of the day, and I was going to just take one last ride with the slide, when I ran towards the stairs and slipped. My nose slammed right into the metallic stairs. I remember the numb feeling in my face and the blood running hot out of my head. My dad took me to the changing rooms and I sat on the bench crying and wiping away the blood while he was getting washed and changed.

It’s funny how persistent some people are, and how their way of being is etched into your mind. Walking into my grandparents’ house is like riding a bike, you can never forget how to do it. The smells, the glass on the hallway door, the communist posters our grandfather had collected in Soviet. He went there several times, it won’t come as a surprise if he was under the surveillance of the government. He told me about his trips to the country one christmas, he could still walk without crutches. He didn’t wear a scarf, because he had never worn one, so why should he start now? Because he was old? No, spare me, please. Anyway, the Russians were great people. They talked good english, were kind and friendly, offering him food and housing when he got lost walking across some vast planes. 

There’s just this vibe you get from a house, you know? I’m still not sure if it just comes from knowing the history of the house or the people who have lived there, or if it’s just something that the house itself is doing, but there’s always a sort of different air pressure inside a house if the people who have lived there have loved each other. Still, if a family has been kind and has spent warm holidays and celebrations and hugged each other, there’s an inevitable sadness laying the groundtone, reeching from the walls like a small faint perfume, almost impossible to notice but ignoring it is futile. If it’s an unhappy but kind family living there, the house doesn’t give off any vibes at all. It feels hollow, and crisp. And if the family is just not good, you will get headaches and a bad breath and your feet will hurt on the way home.

If I get upset by thinking of my mother and her family, I try to think of the warm months of may they had, the warm summer winds, the good moods and the ironic laughter planning a sweet ambush in the corner of a mouth. The joy of feeling the texture of the brand new red jeans. Reading a book and finding a sense of purpose and attachment to the tremendous society scraping at their doorsteps, shaking with change and two-facing and violence. I felt brave one evening when I was fifteen and invited my mother to listen to some of the music I liked. She said fine, sure, and stayed in the sofa with her book. As I put on the music and sat down with my own book pretending to read, watching her in the corner of my eye. The defeat when she midways in the record said “It all sounds very much the same, though” without ever looking away from her book.

My mother is like our planet is to us. You can see everything that goes on up here on the surface, but how things work on microscopic levels, what the true laws of nature really are, you can only guess at. You can never see a cell dividing and shaping a plant with your own eye. You’re 99’999999 % sure how, but you can never be a hundred percent certain. Accepting that I have no idea who she is, is the worst part of growing up and out and about. People are so strange. I think we are fooling ourselves when we preach about natural laws, or treating economics and sociology like nature sciences. We exist in a web consisting of an inumerable choices and inevitable outcomes. I believe with my greatest certainty that our every action can be calculated: it’s just impossible for us to create the mathematical formula. The only certainty in our lives is time, one second following the last. Isn’t it hilarios, that we can never know if time stops? And if you think you can experience it, it is futile. If you “stop time” for others but yourself, there will still be seconds in your existence. Time cannot be stopped, or paused, or reversed. Now molecules reversing, that is an interesting idea.

The Sheep

And so the days pass without even giving a short notice. You’d think that you would have some time to pull yourself together and plan a little ahead, but then suddenly you lie there and your hands are shaking and you don’t want anything anymore. Your mother is sending you pictures of the garden back home, a place you would rather see burnt to the ground. She calls you once every other day and you’re starting to dread those phone calls because you always start crying no matter where you are at that point. You catch yourself sitting on the bed side with folded hands, staring at nothing for several minutes, thinking of nothing. Like the clock on the wall, only ticking inevitably and steadily. You catch yourself sleeping eight hours every night and waking up just wanting to get out of bed because sleeping is making you exhausted. You catch yourself staring at the mountains on the bus ride to work, thinking how you can just pack your bag and walk as far away as you can make it. Who would have thought that you at 20 years old would find yourself like this: only wanting away, crying without knowing why, feeling your brain turn into porridge. You know it, don’t you. Deep inside, at the bones, the truth is carved in and a little courage is all it takes to read it. Yet it’s the lack of courage that has gotten you in this, isn’t it? You wake up feeling unbarebly crisp and dried up the next sunday morning and remember an incident last summer. We were on an island, it was humid and hot, you hadn’t purged for days, you hadn’t eaten sweets for days either. You were feeling great. Your cousin asked you if you wanted to go for a walk. The island wasn’t big but it was enough for drifting around and finding garbage and slipping on rocks. You were hunting a mink and throwing rocks at it when you heard a sheep. You told the rest of the family and wondered why it was only one sheep and how it had gotten out to this island. Farmers use to put their sheeps out on the islands in the summer, but never just one alone. It also took you only five minutes to get here with speed boat and there were many islands nearby, so we came to the conclusion that it must have swam here. “It must have swam here” your uncle said, and you tried to chase it back into the water but it just screamed and was scared vivid so your father and your uncle and your cousin and you chased it onto the speedboat instead and drove around until we found another sheep flock. It ran towards the others and disappeared in the crowd. You couldn’t recognize it. What happened to you? Who dragged and twisted you like a wet cloth to get you into this inescapable state of misery? Despite being warned you could get ink poisoning, you start writing on your body, your skin is covered. “Idleness is the root of all evil.” You have never considered a tattoo until this day. But why write on your body when you have more than enough writing on your bones? You hear it at night, don’t you: the scraping and cutting as the devil sits on your bedside and uses his claw as a pencil and your skeleton as a paper. It’s been three days and you haven’t talked to anyone. Your mother keeps on calling you and you keep on crying. The music doesn’t feel the same anymore and the food taste like paper. Your vision is starting to fade, and soon you can only hear the ticking of the clock on the wall. You hear it, don’t you? Don’t you hear it echoing in your head?

A love story

The alarm went off twelve minutes past eight in the morning and she woke with a startle that shot through her body and made her toes hurt. The room was cold since she liked to sleep with the window open. It was sunday and she was hungover and had five missed calls on her phone.

She rolled over and slept for another five hours until she woke up more tired than ever to the relentless tapping on her window. The sun was now setting and it was still cold in her room and the fog was returning, rolling over the mountains with the calm sterness of the dark ocean from which it came. She knew it was him without looking behind the curtains.

Him, who had called her five times since she went home last night and then ten more times. He was an idiot with some serious emotional problems and an obscure mix of extreme confidence and deep-rooted insecurity. He had always a week-old beard, never a clean shave, and she hadn’t found any razors or scissors in his appartment, not even in the kitchen drawers. When she asked him drunkenly why he liked her, he said that she also wore only black jeans, just like him. He asked her the same question and she said it was because he cared so deeply about marine biology and because he was an adequate skater: not very good, but he could certainly roll down the steepest and longest hill in the city without falling. Even when the ground was shiny from frost.

She fucking hated that skateboard. The first time she saw him, she was late for class again, and walked as fast as she could without sweating or breathing too much. She saw him from afar as he came rolling fast. He looked at her and she looked back in anger until she could distinguish his facial features, but then he looked ahead of him at the road and she gathered up a big amount of spit and it rocketed onto the pavement. She found this so embarrassing it would make her curl her toes and bite her lips for the rest of her life whenever she thought about it. She never mentioned anything of it later, and neither did he, but she was never sure if that was because he hadn’t seen it or because he also found it painfully awkward.

The day after she saw him for the first time, she was off to a supermarket to buy caramel ice cream for her purging. She saw him from afar this time too, but he didn’t look at her now. Instead, she watched him so intently she bumped into a red toyota corolla in the empty parking lot and startled an unfaithful father of three and his east-european prostitute. Everytime she ate that caramel ice cream and stuck two fingers back in her throat, she thought of him and the unfaithful man and the poor prostitute.

Finally she saw him at the university library, he stood at the desk and had some kind of argument with the library lady. She stood nailed to the ground for a solid three mintues, staring intensely at him, thinking of how much he disgusted her. He was terribly good-looking with the unoriginal fashionable beard and the pretentious flanel shirts and the annoying black jeans and she had never thought in her wildest dreams that she would fall this hard for that guy. Then, she proceeded to ask a guy out for the first time ever. She was twenty years old and she had never uttered the words “will you go on a date” before.

He looked at her and crooked his mouth and said “sure” before giving her his phone number and a distant smile. She kept her texting neat and spartian and he put at least one smiley instead of a period at the end of his sentences. They had coffee and went to see a movie and she said “I’m sorry I picked up such a bad movie for our date”. He put his arm around her and she smelled his sweat and anti-perspirant. Her vision darkened as he covered her face with his. After that, she had no problem talking. In fact, she found it lighter to talk to him than with any girl friend she had ever had. They went to his place and she slept there for four days until she had to go home and get clean clothes and he followed and they slept at hers for the weekend.

He tried to show her how to skate and she did surprisingly well, until she asked herself if she was happy now, and she swerved and fell on the cold asphalt and scraped her hands and her right cheek and she got a hole on her favorite pair of black jeans. She didn’t eat caramel ice cream anymore and she didn’t bend over the toilet and puked until she thought she was gonna die. She felt as solid like the devil and stared at people with fire in her eyes. She was bulletproof and gave herself away as if she had built herself only to this time in her life. She showed him her movies and played songs she had downloaded and told him about her strangest nightmares and about the people she had slept with. He showed her how to skate and slapped her butt when they were naked in the bathroom and he told her about when his grandmother died and she realized she didn’t care. She couldn’t make herself attached to his passed grandmother, her scents, her voice, the way she used to walk. He only talked about her sometimes after they had sex, and then he talked about her and nothing else until he fell asleep. She got up careful not to wake him and opened the cupboards and drawers in his appartment and looked for a razor or scissors. Instead she found his stock of cigarettes and smoked them at the table and cooked coffee before he woke up.

She hadn’t told any of her friends about him but he clearly had. He had also forgotten to ask her if she actually wanted to come to the party. He looked surprised at first when he realized she was completely ignorant of their plans, but then he got happy and explained absent-minded that he felt as if she was a part of him and that she had always been there and that he actually felt like she always knew what he was thinking. She started sweating and was very happy that the bus was so full they couldn’t look straight at each other.

His friends were super nice and she was being a dick and drank one bottle of red wine and three glasses of whiskey. She opened the kitchen drawer and took out a pair of scissors and stuck them in her back pocket. He took her by the hand and locked the bathroom door and fucked her against the wall. The music was too loud for anyone to hear them, and he didn’t hear the scissors that fell to the ground. They shared a taxi back home with two girls and he fell asleep immediately. It took her only ten minutes to cut it off. Then she walked three hours to get home. She had considered breaking his skateboard but she realized he couldn’t make her pay for his lost facial hair.

He had now started yelling at her from outside the window. Fear filled her from top to toe and tickled her skin like the feet of a thousand spiders. She got up and drew away the curtains. She didn’t say anything. Yet, instead of becoming angrier and more frustrated, as she thought he would be, he started smiling and laughing and she hated him more than ever. She imagined herself getting stabbed in the gut until she felt calm and opened the window. He climbed in and laughed, and threw her on the bed before starting to make coffee.

But I keep complaining about these people, you know? These people that have lived before me, these people that are living with me right now. Those in the future. You know? To me, they’re all but a concept. They’re the future. They’re the people right next to me in this restaurant. You know? They’re all just concepts. We are all just concepts. We stand outside the dark jungle, torches in our hands, pretending we’re cornering the big dangerous tiger. We are, you are, the mayor in the city, the highest ranked advisor, the person to whom everyone turns to when the tiger has attacked and killed more than three people. But at the same time, we are, you are, the mother of one of those three people, you are the brother of one of those three people. You are one of those three people. What people like you and me find so difficult to understand, is that we are all the same persons. We grow up hearing scientists telling us that we consist of the same atoms that of which the dinosaurs consisted of: it grants us power, but it still keeps us powerless: your atoms are just as powerful as mine: my atoms are just as powerless as yours. Time is timeless: at the moment that my mother dies, I am born, again, at new, again, for the first time, for the last in forever; it never stops, it continues over and over again. You try to step out, to do something that has never been done before. You step out of the crowd, you are no longer neither the leader nor the follower: “Let’s go out and kill the tiger,” you don’t say it out loud, but the notion is aching in your entire body: do everything in spie, on the contrary, push every button that inspires the opposite. You step out. Into the jungle. Into the swamp, the dangerous river, the terrifying unknown, terrifying because you lack the ability to imagine it: no matter how long or how hard you try, you can never see a different color than what your physical body is capable of. Even if the homo species is capable of expanding the subsea timelapse to more than four hours, you still can’t see more than the primate colors’ combinations. Even if the homo species is capable of extracting some datas of whatever strange phenomenoms that exist outside our solar system, outside our dimensions, you will still never realize the true meaning, the lack of true meaning, which you still won’t understand. That is just how you are. You are the tiger, forever hunting until extinxtion, at your last pray, your last meal. You are the meal, the man, the woman, the flesh, millions of atoms originating in the million years stretch of the factory production of molecules upon molecules. You are the mother, the origin of the molecule factory, you are the producer of that factory, producing molecules upon molecules, combining acids and alcoids to create a very special electro-magentic shield that will grant you extra protection; yet that extra protection, even though it will last for millennias to us, it will last only for billennias to me, the creator, the original, the one and only, amongst other myriads of truths and insane calculations and improbable reasons. You know so little. You even pretend that the greatest gift of all amongst the homo sapiens is the gift of curiosity, the gift of trying to find out what and why and how. Yet, even though you refuse to acknowledge it, your greatest gift is simply the belief. Perhaps the religious belief, perhaps the scientific (oh come on: all proofs point at the big bang and dinosaurs and evolution and whatnot: but none of you have the force of empirical first-witness proof): you can be as scientific and curious as you want: as long as you do not faithfully, unrockable, stubbornly, stale-to-the-point-of-hydrogen-electromagnetism-y believe consistently, extensively, undeniably, in your own existense. Oh yeah, you pretend that you think “What if this is all but a dream?” And after that thought, you proceed in having so much fun you barely remember doubting your own unprobable existence in the first place. That is why you’re all special. Not because you just are. Because you believe you are.

Nothing at all

I dreamed about you last night! In my dream it was my birthday, and my mom had planned a great day for me, so I got up to take a shower, and then you were suddenly there, kissing and touching me. My mom came up to the bathroom door and asked me about some things and I couldn’t let her come in because she would see you there. I saw this whole scene in a B-rated movie a few days ago, I guess it got stuck in me. I woke up to my radio murmuring some strange low electronic songs, I had forgotten to turn it off before I went to sleep. I was at a party on friday and although I drunk four beers and one terrible mojito, I wasn’t really that hungover since I walked home from the city again. I keep on doing that instead of just taking a taxi, which isn’t that expensive, but I guess I’m not able to take that decision whenever I’m drunk. It was raining, and I think that at some point I was crying, but I can’t remember what about. I brought home a traffick cone and some iron rods from a building spot, just for the fun of it. Yesterday, I watched four movies, drunk two beers and ate a chocolate bar. Stuck my hand down my throat and threw up some of it. The party I’m talking about was pretty boring, actually, but that’s partly my own fault. The plan was to celebrate the beginning of our second year of this three year university degree. Everytime I’m out drinking with these people, I get so drunk and thus, starved on fun by spending every evening every week in my room alone doing nothing, I always do whatever comes to my mind. And then I wake up filled with regrets. Pretty pathetic, come to think of it. So this time I had promised not to let myself get out of control, and surprisingly, it worked. Except for when I was at the night club and had finished my bad mojito in two minutes and I said was just going outside to find someone, and walked home and supposedly cried a lot. But I feel fine now, no problem. We have a lot to read and a lot of work to do this year, but I feel pretty good about that too, actually. Although I really miss you. And if I could choose, I’d rather be five years old in my mother’s lap watching a BBC nature program, knowing that the life I have now is so unsubstantially far away that it’s nearly no concern of mine. I mean, I don’t even consist of the same things now as I did when I was five. You know, all my atoms and molecules are exchanged. You’re ten years older than me, so you’ve changed even more. But you’re still the same. I hope I get to feel you when you change even more. I guess I’ll get some work done now. We’ve only had classes for a week and I’m already terribly far behind. You said you were going back to your home country during winter? Maybe we’ll meet next summer, then. You gave me two compliments: 1, that I kiss like a tiger, and 2, that you liked my legs. I was so drunk when you said that thing about my legs. I hadn’t shaved, so I keep wondering if that’s why you said it, or if it was just because you liked my legs in general. But I won’t bother you with these questions. You know, when I woke up today after my dream of you, I recalled a conversation I had with a guy in Liverpool: I said that it felt like my life had come to a hault, that I was just waiting to die. Not in a suicidal way, just that everything felt sort of deflated now, like those balloons that haven’t popped but the air has still gone out of it and now it’s sort of baggy and you can’t untie the knot and blow in new air. Then the guy said “But hey, you’re only twenty, you’re a great girl with a smart head, you’ll go so many places! I’m even getting excited for you just here right now thinking about it!” And I woke up and thought of it, and it reminded me of something I saw in a movie or read in a book, it bugs me that I can’t remember where it’s from. But it’s one person who says to another, something like: “It’s a funny thing, that whenever there’s a war, there is surprisingly little going on in the whole world. Almost nothing at all.” In two months I’ll be at a french hospital, struggling with the language and fucking up with my work tasks, and I’ll enjoy it for sure, but even though I’m twenty and smart and my life is “just going up up up”, I still woke up this gray sunday morning, missing you, just waiting, breathing, waiting. I still miss you, I miss my mom. I will always wish I was five years old. And hope that I’ll dream some more about you. See you next summer.

FFC offspring

My life is just wasting away. But I don’t have anything else I want to do. I’m going to pass my exams. I’m going to have enough money to have an alright summer vacation. Maybe I’ll work, but only a little. I’ll pass my next exam. I’ll be real nervous about it but it will go alright. Then I will go on exchange to Europe, where I will have a hard, rough time, I will cry in the shower and not wanting to get out of bed, but I will do it and time will pass and it will be fine. The only problem with living is that time is so sharp. It never goes faster or slower. Movies and books and songs are just trying to manipulate time, but you know secretly that time is straighter than the sharpest knife edge in the world. And there are scientists trying to explain time, and saying things like “the faster you move, the slower time moves for you” and that if you look at the stars, you’ll see back in time, and all other sorts of things that are making me dizzy and I need to lie down and feel like I’m falling down to earth, not out into the universe. Everything will be alright. I say to myself, “what’s the worst thing that can happen? Someone I care about die, or I die.” if I die, then all my troubles are over. I won’t feel guilt or sadness because the people who care about me are now mourning and crying over me. Because I won’t exist. Killing yourself is only difficult until you’ve done it. But living is difficult all the time. Heck, everything is difficult. “But everything will be alright, as long as there is no war where you live, and you have a place to live and a fridge with food and electricity to keep the fridge running. You can read. You’re not blind or deaf or mute or disabled in any way. You’re the embodiment of success from birth. Only problem is maybe your crippling anxiety and your inability to explain that anxiety. But it gives you the creeps. And it makes you cry uncontrollably and inexplicably. And it gives you guilt, because why would you, the luckiest girl in the world, who has every reason to live, who is healthy and well educated and cultured and whatnot, why would this unlikely successful girl get sad and unhappy and scared? The world is yours. It’s in your hand. Yet, secretly every morning, you think to yourself: ‘The world is so heavy to drag. I hope I get hit by a bus today. And that my head gets disconnected from my body so I won’t feel too much pain.’ You’re a disgrace to humanity, but humanity is a disgrace in itself. The only thing disgracing humanity is itself thinking that parts of it is disgracing itself. You’re all just bullshitting the world, pretending a god will judge you one day, clinging to that tiny, weak belief that it’s important that you go to classes tomorrow because you need to do a thing. You don’t need that thing. Everything you are going to learn has already been invented by other humans. You’re not studying nature laws, you’re pretending to learn about humans as if you were not a human yourself. So who are you trying to kid? Just fake it on the exam, you’ll be fine. Fake it in front of your friends, they’ll be fine and you’ll be fine. Fake your whole life, because everything will be just fine." "Fine."