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."  

I like beginnings. When you start on something new, you’re in clear water. Usually, beginnings have very clear instructions. You’re allowed to do mistakes because you’re not expected to know the rules thoroughly. New tings are exciting and fresh and unknown, the main thing that drives you is curiosity. I guess that is why I love to start new books. The first page is always the best one. Naturally, since it’s the first you read in a book, it has been perfected. Every next word follows the one before, as if in a dance. There’s a flow, a rhythm, that is dragging you in. It’s like being hungry, and tasting a piece of chocolate. Your dry and numb taste buds are waking up from their in-between-meals slumber. You taste the sweet, the salt, the fat, the dry, the wet. Your mouth loosens up, and for a second there, your sense of taste is overwhelming you, literally swallowing you whole. Your vision doesn’t blurr, you don’t go blind or deaf, but you forget all of that the moment you’ve layed the chocolate piece on your tongue. You just forget the other senses, simply. The next taste isn’t as lovely. It’s interesting, as well as the first taste, but it is not new, it is compared to the first one. It’s a follow-up. The first taste can also be the last, but the second cannot exist without the first. The second is usually a disappointment. The first one was so consuming and different, and all you feel is a thrill of experiencing something new, so the second one will always only be a resumé of disappointment of all the exciting things you felt with the first taste but which doesn’t exist in the second. It’s just a sad immitation, that’s all. The cocoa isn’t as present, and the sweet is more dull. Naturally, going from zero to hundred is impressive, but from hundred to hundred and one is nothing. The third bite is your last chance, a tiny hope that this one will confirm the magic you felt with the first, that it wasn’t just a small malfunction that occurred with the second. But you hold your stakes low, because deep in your soul, at the chore of your spine, you are very well aware of the truth. The harsh, breathtaking, earth shaking truth that the rest of the chocolate will never be as splendid as that first bite. Unless, of course, you wait another couple of hours, and your tongue is marinated in tasteless saliva. The rest of the chocolate plate, you eat with a mechanical gesture, the only thing that keeps you going is the desire of sugar and the memory of the recent explosion in your mouth which woke you up from the dead for a short time. I guess with books, it’s kind of different. The word flow doesn’t stop, just like a river won’t hold back for small periods of time, leaving the fishes in a constant anxious state, always hoping that this certain holdback won’t be the final. No, a book only stops until you shut it, or until you lose your concentration. But as all allegories, none of them are any good if you study them long enough. My first teacher told us that we could stop reading a book after the first fifty pages, and if it wasn’t good enough by then, it was okay to put it away and ignore it forever. I agree with her, but I have made some corrections. Instead of waiting and wasting fifty pages and fifty minutes of your life, you should only read the first twenty pages. By then, you’re far enough into the story to know the characters, their personalities, their fights against their existence, and if they will have a mental breakdown within the next fifty or the next two hundred pages. If you’ve come as far as fifty pages, you might as well finish the book, because at that time, you’ve gotten so involved with the characters that you just need to know what they are going to answer and what they are going to do. The responsibility you have to the characters and to the author, and to yourself, increases the further you come into the book. People always say that the great beauty of books is that you have the chance to live another person’s life in two hundred pages or so, but what they do not mention is that by living this temporary life, you also have to deal with all the horrors and fears and nerves to all the people existing in the book, in addition to your own struggles in real life. That is why, by page fifty, you already know all these things, and unless you continue reading, you will walk around with a constant wrinkle between your eyebrows, not because of a problem in your own reality, but because of all the unsolved fictional problems in the stories you accepted the responsibility of, but never solved. And of course, the only way of solving those problems is by finishing the books. This is why you should always only read the first ten to twenty pages of a book. In those pages, you have a drop of their life. As in a dream, you are thrown into a reality that doesn’t belong to you. You have no backstory, at least nothing more but a vague feeling of a personality and a history, as obscur as silhouettes against the horizon after the sun goes down. The only set of rules are the laws of existence, be or be not. Within those first «titalls» pages, you can by using your gut feelings, know if you’ll like the story or not. Whether or not you’ll learn something from it, depends entirely on your will to learn facts that may make your situation terribly uncomfortable. Besides, books are extremely overrated. We have an average of 30 000 different words in every dictionary, and still, several millions of books are produced every year, claiming to tell you something you didn’t know before and which you cannot know from any other book ever. Books are valued among snobs, because reading a book is investing your most precious valuta, your life, and you better invest it well since you can never know when you’ll be walking around with professors and intellectuals and royals and stars, and that’s when the litterature you’ve successfully or mistakenly wasted your time on will come in handy and sort out the gold from the corn. And then, when you lie on your death bed, with tubes down your nose and a nurse by your side and your family fifty thousand miles away, you’ll recite a poetic sentence written by a prehistoric author, and you’ll stare into the distant landscape with an expression meant to be thoughtful and reflecting, but which is mistaken as a confused and stressed mine, and the nurse pities you and nods while saying «Yes, indeed» before giving you an extra dose of morphine to ease your final contractions before your well-read mind turns itself off and you’re turned into fine ashes that are kept in a jar on a shelf for fifty years until your grandson has got no clue whether cremated remains are to be recycled or not, and then throws you in the trash can. So for the love of god, stop reading a book after ten pages if you already think it’s shit.

It’s that time of the month again. What I’m talking about is not bleeding softly and screechingly from my vagina yet, but it has certainly something to do with this. That three-day period before I start bleeding, when I cry so much I start looking up signs for depression on the internet. The crying can be triggered by anything. A picture of white interiors and green cacti. A song with lyrics I don’t understand but it feels like it’s about adolescence. I know that it will always pass, and that in one week or so I will wonder again what happened, and then I won’t think about it anymore until it starts again. It doesn’t worry me except when it happens. And I guess it shouldn’t worry me, since I know that this is a regular and natural thing and it happens to other girls as well, but I think the reason that I’m scared is because I no longer need outside stimulations to start crying: it’s enough to think about myself now, or my past, or my future. The things I did, but shouldn’t have done. The current situation where I can’t leave because I need to do my exam and I can’t drink myself to sleep because I am broke. The future, which I know that I secretly hate and despise with every fibre in my body. The careers I won’t have. Oh god, the things I could have done. Revolutionized fashion, made beautiful films, made magic with the piano keys. Painted the heaven and written about the true identity of the devil. But it’s like walking a tightrope, it doesn’t help looking down and facing your fears. I learn how to let it pass, like all things. I stop crying. I don’t tell anyone what think about in those seconds where I’m between two things, like standing up and sitting down. That god-awful moment when you stand on your feet, trying to sit down, but the winds of nihilism blows your mind right off into the sky and for a second you remember that nothing matters and the universe is too insane to be real and everything you are will be gone when you die. And yet, I always manage to sit down, eventually. So I stop crying. And I wait a week, the bleeding stop, I wait three weeks that are totally fine, and then the crying starts again. It makes you wonder whether your emotions are ever true, and you know they aren’t because emotions are nothing but electric signals and small molecules turning on and off all the cells which you are made of. You don’t have to worry, though. Two weeks later your hormones are “in balance” again but you see a picture of lavender fields in Provence, and you remember the 92 year old lady with dementia on the nursing home you worked at, talking of her honeymoon 70 years ago in the south of France, telling you about the wonderful purple flowers while you wipe her ass and stuff her intestines back up into her anus. And you start crying because of this pretty picture of the lavender fields, and it’s not because your hormones are altered.

I’m listening to your angry music and it’s really good. You look really weird and I bet you smell weird as well, but your music is really good. You’re there and I’m here and I’m spending my days by going to class and standing in the shower and drinking alcohol and skipping school. I wonder what you do when you wake up. When I wake up I sit on the toilet and stare at myself in the mirror and I drink one glass of milk and eat a cookie. I know milk is for babies and I only want to be your baby. Hey by the way, I heard about this thing called The Boat, where you torture a person by locking him inside two boats with only his head and his hands and feet sticking out. Then they pour milk and honey on his face and make him drink it, until flies and maggots and starvation have killed him. I think you would like that torture method, I wonder if you would think about this when you make your songs. You sing about your friends and being angry, and being in the desert. When I was nine, I dreamed I was in the desert. I’ve never even been in one in real life, but there I was, and I was walking to get to a city, but it was difficult because my shoes got sand in them. I had to stop after five steps and take off my shoes and empty them. Sometimes, I listen to your music and I forget the words, but other times I listen to both. I like that song where you write about going hiking, it reminds me of my dream. And I like that you end the song with a word that has nothing to do with the rest of the song. If I ever get the chance to meet you, I’ll ask if you want to come to this island I used to go on vacation to when I was nine years old. There are long lines of white houses there, and it’s warm, and you got these little water fountains outside of every house so you can wash the sand off your feet. There are probably cockroaches under the bathtub and herons in the water. We can go out to this swimming pool they have near by the water, it’s very pretty and neat, and next to it is a small area with green carpet which is supposed to look like grass. We can stand on the carpet and wear sun glasses and look at each other and at the pool and the wave breaker. I’m not sure what to do after that. Sometimes I get dizzy when I think about going to that island, because I think that if I ever go there, I won’t be able to return or go anywhere else. I won’t even be able to die, I’ll just be stuck in the same day or year until the earth gets burned to a crisp. Oh, and there’s another thing I’d ask you about, if I met you. Are there any problems?

I am what you would call “not exactly beautiful”. I am ugly, but that’s not so bad. There’s a whole lot of people who are ugly. And as long as you’re not hanging out with extremely pretty people, no one will care if you’re ugly because it isn’t something you decided to be. What bothers me, is that I’m fat. If I stop eating and become thin, I will still be ugly. But now, you see me and think “she’s ugly, and fat”, and you pity me and feel better than me because you are not fat at all, you are slender and athletic and you certainly give the impression that you don’t have to work very hard to look that way. I want to be thin, so you will stop pitying me, and start hating me instead. You’ll see me and think “she’s ugly, and thin” and your squishy electric grey brain decides to hate me. I’m not getting thin because I want to look hot, or look like the models, or look good in pictures. I want to be thin because you will assume that I am thin because of those reasons, and even though you will pity me because you think that I’m “weak”, you will also hate me, which is good, because that way I can hate you too. As I already do. I’ll just have a better reason to.