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.
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
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.
‘Why are you only talking about mеn?’ the woman suddenly asked me. Victory had a smile on her face and the man looked rather bored as if he had heard it all before.
‘Because only a man can be the greatest inspiration for a woman.’
The woman smiled satisfactory and I felt like I made a right move, being so straightforward.
‘Continue, please.’ She told me calmly.
‘My god, but he was so far away. ‘Oh, darling, what are we to do?’, he spoke after the drink hit his heart and made the doubt come out, word-shaped. It was not love. It was that intellectual attachment, a form of understanding, but it was not love. It was night already and we were sitting in a bar, drinking. It was night already and nobody seemed to have noticed how the day went away.
He was a painter again, I forgot to mention that. As if I was in an inescapable circle. ‘We misbehaved for days and now we need to face the reality in this phase…’ ‘Of our lives’, he knew how to complement me. And sometimes right people meet in the wrong time. Just as often as the right time brings together the wrong type of people. And in those conditions love may be born, just as it may not be. Love is realization, love is born from the dirt, from the uninspiration, from the confusion. Love is holding on through the changes. People are always subject to change and to want that person through the changes is a proof of love. You could not know it before it happens, there is just no way. Before everything else, people are separate pieces of life, different entities. And we change in the course of our travelling through life. Holding onto and wanting to be with the person, perhaps having a reason is what defines one bit of the feeling called love. There are many more, if you are lucky enough to find them and recognize them.
We both had our other emotions to cure. So we knew, it was not love that was born. It felt so, so good, but it was not love. It was all passion. All and only passion. And I knew that maybe one day, at the end of all the passion, at the place where our bodies lay, I may find something more than what I knew back then. And he may also find his darling on the place where the separation dug, deep and slowly. As of then, I did not know how I got his kisses on my neck again.
So there I was again, desperately trying to fuck everything out of myself. But it was not working, it was never working, and it will never work. Neither for me, nor for anyone else. A body into a body, a mere penetration, an animal into its comfort zone, it never works.
I hope nobody would ever have to see what I saw in that evening. His face, the look. The destructive emotion. The agony of a soul. That was when I told him that I really did not want to be with him. The moon went mad, I swear. Rudely honest. Mad Moon. Half Life. Sleepless hours. Only lights. His look was attack directly on my soul. And he told me I was over so many things, and I said I didn’t care what I am over and who is lying under me anymore. It all had nothing to do with pride, at least not with my type of pride. But, god, his face in that evening. That pretty perfection under the spell of pure desperation…
It’s not really about the ground or the neutral state of consciousness of the mob. In any case many people spend most of their lives thinking about nothing in particular and talking about the same. Many people spend most of their lives imitating love and ignoring the same. Trading love for attention or need and chasing away the same. Care and attention wear the mask of love just like beauty wears the mask of wreck. Love is above. Don’t dirty it with casual words, or imitated feelings and actions. Love is above, don’t lower it to complications. Love is simple.
He, in particular, was always talking about some truths that I had not yet discovered, about some things that it would take me months to realize. Sometimes I was thinking that even he didn’t realize what was he doing. It was just so natural for him to spread truth around.
He, particularly, designed his words with the purest of fire. No matter right or wrong, they were pure. My poetry started loosing its meaning and that was a perfect sign for me of my existential collapse. He could not be compared to anything I ever needed to beware. I was ready to give him every piece of my share, just wanted him to meet me there – where every sound was heard loudly and every word spoken bravely.
I tried evoking love to come to him. He was empty though. Empty but not in the ordinary sense of emptiness. He was empty like a hollow guitar that resonated every sound, he resonated every truth, every sense. So I became part of him, of his insights. Wholeness. Now, we just needed to entail love in that space of ours.
He was empty in another sense as well. He was emptied. Emptied by people who didn’t talk about anything in particular, by people who took words for granted, by people who used actions as weapons, and not as representation of feelings.
I was mad at that, furious at those people. I wanted his hollowness to be filled with the sounds of love.