Actually, his name was Isaac. His friends used to call him Nick because they thought Isaac was too Jewish. He remembered this one cold morning when he opened his eyes to look at the wooden ceiling. He liked how he ended up to be. He was alone but he was truly alive. He had a dog – Cherry. Cherry was an Aussie who was stained in black and white with brown ears and brown paws. He named her Cherry because the love of his life used to love eating cherries. Probably she still loved eating cherries. There was just no way of knowing that.
Yeah, it always comes to this – who do you love, who do you miss, who do you love and miss. He thought about this in the same morning when he remembered that his name was Isaac. He had a sad face but his soul wasn’t disgraced. He did everything he could to save his soul – from the world, from society, from people, from women. He was loyal but it didn’t seem to matter to other people. He was honest and it also didn’t seem to matter to other people. He couldn’t stand pretending, that’s why he refused the world and headed to the woods. He didn’t have anything to hold on to. He couldn’t pretend anymore, he could pretend to enjoy social occasion, he couldn’t pretend to laugh at the same fucking ‘funny’ story over and over again. The stupid story that everybody had to say, or talk about the weather, or how the old nasty neighbor fucks a young lady, and how the hell did he manage to get her in bed. He refused to audition for that role in the theatre of Life. He had his own lifeline to build.
So where were we? Nick. Who lived at the edge of a cliff. Who refused the world and headed to the woods. I don’t know why his name was Nick, neither did he, nor his parents. I am not sure if he had parents. But surely he must have had. For he remembered two dim figures being around him before he became a man. But now he was Nick who lived in the sticks. He built his house brick by brick. Yes, he built it bit by bit.
He was brought up in a lie. But, as we already mentioned, it took him years to realize that lie and take up the truth. The truth – that he was not, after all, so special, that he was just like everybody else. However, no one could ever obliterate the lie he was brought up in. No one could ever destroy that stop on memory lane. It was something to drink over in the cold winter nights.
His name was Nick and lived at the edge of a cliff. That’s right, he refused the world and headed to the woods. The moment of realization came for him – the realization that he was just like everybody else, the realization that there was nothing he could do. He was just like everybody else, he had the same impure thoughts, he loved food, he loved sex, he had strange erotic fantasies, he loved to deceive others just to feel superior, he loved to look good in the eyes of people, he loved to be loved, he loved to look like he was something more than other people and he was doing what was necessary to look so, he loved to hide things, to keep them for himself. From time to time he had trouble sleeping but he ignored the problem claiming it would work itself out. Until one day.
Until one day he woke up from a dreadful dream in which he was far away from everything that he loved. Only, it was not a dream anymore. He was, in fact, alone. In the centre of his body – right where thoughts and feelings meet, he felt terrible pain. And love was not there anymore. Less, it was there but it had a different form – it had transformed into hate. He hated himself and he hated others. He could not move, he was paralyzed. He couldn’t get up. Then he asked himself ‘Do you want to live?’ ‘What kind of a question is that?’ inquired the second voice in his head. ‘A human kind of question,’ answer the third voice in his head. ‘You need to understand yourself first, everything else is negotiable. But you are what you are,’ a fourth voice joined the discussion. ‘SHUT UP!’ He screamed and got up.
‘You are living in paper castles,’ the fourth voice continued. Well…he didn’t even roll the dice in his head, he just closed his eyes for two seconds. Then he left. He packed one suitcase and rented his one flat and headed to the woods. Didn’t care about the odds. In any case, it is an interesting world that we are living in – everybody’s trying to close their eyes and absolve their sins. But it takes more. It takes so much more.
I’ve had the urge of the young writer to write about everything that had happened to me, instead of to write about what matters. I’ve been writing things to people, about people, for people, giving it to people to read, dedicating writings to people, posting it on social media without even realizing my own preaching – that words are not free. They cling to people, to hearts, to minds. I believed that was the only way to be true to one”s self and to the world. But it is not. To be true means to find the truth in everything and say it, write it, shout it, if you will. Everything else is bragging about your own personal drama which is not interesting anyways because everybody has got it in their lives.
One might say that I am a lost little girl who does not know what she wants and probably will never know. To those I have nothing to say.
But one may also acquit me of my guilt and say that I am just trying to find out what the hell am I and what the hell have I so I don’t rot before my actual expiration date. That I have actually grown up, of course with help from other s. To that person, or if I am lucky enough, those people, I owe much of what I have become and will become. All I can say is a mere thank you and give my love.
Yes, I believe we have an expiration date. It is all about how much from the world you can take. Some people die young and continue to live as empty bodies. Others die young but continue stronger than ever, however with a changed form. But we do expire. The good thing is that we can do something about it afterwards. But nobody can do it for us; everybody has their own battle to fight. And this fight goes until the real expiration date comes – the expiration date of the body in which you live in, the one that you cannot escape.
These are the first few meaningful sentences that I have written in months and they sound like a damned confession of somebody who has been away for too long. I am too young to have been away for too long. And I am too young to know anything whatsoever. I can only guess what it all means; and guessing has always been fun. It’s almost like gambling with life and not knowing if you’ll get the poor hand.
Many things have ended for me, I’m done. Things like fighting for what is right or trying to fight and win over my demons. Things like speaking in the correct tense and trying to find some sense. Many things have ended for me in the cold evenings and had begun again in the even colder mornings. Seasons have changed and I am below the lowest I had ever gotten. It ain’t right. I’ve held my head high and I’ve been down in the dirt, in the mud. My moods have varied so much that I have destroyed relations with people. I’ve written so many words that I can’t remember them all. I’ve read so many words yet the white paper is the most sincere thing that exists. I’ve heard so many words that I’ve stopped listening. I’ve cared so much that I’ve ruined my inner self. I’ve blamed so much that I am to blame. I’ve seen so little of the world yet it feels like too much. I’ve tasted the madness now I want the touch
Vice was fixing his jaw in front of the mirror. This time he could not take the high road. He really wanted to, but he could not. Instead, he punched the guy three times before the guy could fight back, which he surprisingly did. And now, Vice was feeling guilty for punching him at all. He was unluckily gifted with the gift of reflection.
‘Look, Di, I really didn’t mean to hurt him. But he was so rude to you…’
‘Drop it. He’s fine, you’re fine, I’m fine. Stop thinking about it already.’ I said, trying to console him. Vice was really one of the nicest guys I had ever known.
‘Where is Aaron? Did he show up at all?’ Vice asked me.
‘Are you still not talking to each other?
I nodded, looking down.
‘Come on, man. Pull yourself together and…’
The door got open. A guy, excessively worried, shaking and sobbing, showed up behind it. ‘Guys, you have to see this, come. Help!’
We stormed out of the bathroom and went to the living room. There was a girl on one of the couches collapsing, chocking on foam coming out of her mouth. People had gathered around her and a man was holding her head. Everyone was panicking. ‘Call an ambulance. Someone!’ people were screaming from each corner of the room.
‘Hold her, she’ll roll down, damn it.’ Vice went to the couch to support her, pushing the guy who was doing nothing on the side. There was nothing that could be done except for to wait. Soon the seizure stopped. But she was not gaining consciousness. ‘Damn it.’ Vice said. He started tapping her cheeks just so she could come to consciousness. It did not work. People started spreading around the house again and soon the music was on. Almost as if nothing had happened. This kind of people pissed me off. ‘What did she take?’ Vice asked her friend, who was sitting at the far-away edge of the couch the whole time. ‘I don’t know…a few lines…a guy gave it to her to try. He said he just got them for the first time and it was the bomb…’ the girl started crying.
There and then someone rang the doorbell. The music stopped again. I went to the door and looked through the peep hole. ‘It’s the ambulance and the police.’
‘Where is the stuff that she took?’ Vice asked her friend. ‘Di, don’t open the door. Everyone keep quiet.’ ‘Right there, on the table.’ Somebody said. He was trying to keep his voice low, while informing all the shitheads to stop doing anything illegal that they were doing. I was going around, taking joints from people and dusting off cocaine from tables.
Vice found the bag on the kitchen bar, not on the table. It was one of those plastic bags that they put vegetables in. The cocaine was making a vegetable out of the relapsed girl now. Uses reversed as it often happens.Vice took the stuff to the kitchen corner which was part of the living room and there was also a washing machine. He put the cocaine in the washing machine, right where washing powder is normally put with the bag. He didn’t want to waste it. You know, the problems of the drug addicts… ‘Ok. We are good.’ He said. I opened the door.
It was a dank night. After all had cleared up from medical care people, policeman and all the other types of people, Vice and I sat on the couch. We were having drinks, cheap whiskey, smoking high and I was thinking about life. Chest full of smoke, our thoughts were provoked. I was thinking about the animality of human species. All we want to do is to eat, fuck, and have a sleep. Not even necessarily in that order. We consume things, consumer food, consume products, consume technology, consume money, we consume hearts, souls, we want to have it all for ourselves. And when we feel like we can’t, we consume drugs, just to fool ourselves that we can. I wanted to go to space and spit on people from that high, and never come back, ever again. Nobody told me that I’d see days like these – when I’d ask myself if anything at all can be changed. Is there anything that can be done at all and is it worthy to devote your life to that change that may never come at all. The ones who do not want to fit in were sitting just like Vice and I, in some room, in another town, in a big city, or perhaps in the same town as us. And they were also thinking about life, or better said, thinking about how to escape life. How to escape that ‘nine-to-five’ dagger that slices you slowly day by day, week by week, month by month, year by year; That thing that bores you to death and you start taking it out on people, on your loved ones until one day every one leaves because they got tired of your shit. And the only problem was your inner dissatisfaction of the way you live. We were thinking of ways to escape the melodrama of the middle-aged, middle class, mediocre living being. We wanted sublimity. We wanted to fly high. We wanted that raw, unrefined touch of the core of the universe. These were the battles of our youth.
The bottle was running dry, we were finishing off our high, and nobody had spoken in an hour.
‘I’m gonna head home.’ Vice said.
‘Have a good night.’ I said.
‘Thanks. Call Aaron and stop being a bitch.’ He said with his back turned to me, while walking to the door.
Recently, I was feeling like I was lost in people. There were too many people on my road. I was not feeling like myself. I wanted to get to the true essence of my being again. That was why I did not want to see anyone, especially Aaron. But in my world one solves one’s problems alone. If I could not help myself, no one could help me. People mix up their characters when they spend too much time together. And this could be the best thing in the world. It could also be the worst thing in the world. You just take a chance, wait, and see. I had to figure out what was it for me. Too often loneliness was a good companion. It was better to have it at my side than as an enemy.
In any case, for me being published meant being in excruciating pain and saying it out loud. Тhat is a bravery in my world. It was never about the possible popularity or the attention of my acquaintances, or the questions everyone would start to ask. It was about being able to communicate all the things that had happened, all the things that I am.