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…
He was like water to me – clear and transparent. I could drink him up in a breath but I didn’t want to. It wasn’t cool. He didn’t deserve to be forgotten so easily afterwards. Nonetheless, it is an interesting world that we are living in – everyone is trying to close their eyes and absolve their sins. But it takes more, so much more.
These little black dots just came out of their oblivion. They try to form themselves again on the other side. I like that try, I like that someday in which it all be worthy. But the message will never arrive, the birds dropped it in the ocean of forgetfulness. The idea is gone. But look at the people. Ever since you can see you look at them. But see them. Feel them. They don’t want what they got, but they also don’t want what we have in mind to give them. It’s only a silence of actions. You can’t live in a corrupt society and be still. You can only dance. It’s a representation of a thought that sometimes arrives more than late. And you dance. You dance on the sound of screams and in the background are their horrified faces. You can’t deny what lives inside your voice. You cannot escape what wants to live through your voice. And they don’t have a clue. You hold the clue on every step of your dance. But the ground beneath you cracks because of the power of their voices and the horror. And I don’t like what they do to you. I don’t like the trend. They are only there to breed guilt in your mind. This city is the pearly elitism of our fleeting time here. If we walk ourselves out of the economic system, the birds will still be flying, but the voices will still be heard too. We cannot wash away entire lifetimes. You cannot search for the message in the ocean that’s not yours. Unfair, we are not where we want to stand tonight. Unfairly, we are too close to the ground to stand up so easily. It’s just sad. Because people can be bad in so much more aspects than those in which they allow themselves to be good. That’s why they keep falling. Like leaves. But we cannot keep them from falling on the ground. No one is that strong to fight the inevitable.