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.
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
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 of 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 my every thing, that captured my 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.