Father

When the psychiatrist asked him to recollect his oldest memory, specifically that one came to mind. In the big hallway of their apartment, conveniently transformed into a room. On the couch, in his father's arms. Pale light. Must be less then 3 years old, before their divorce. He's curious, like any other child, constantly moving. Wants to see where and why that sound comes from. When he finally manages to turn around he sees his mother sitting on a chair. Palms covering her face. Crying...

They were supposed to go to the movies together. Like any other Sunday morning. Early show. Cheaper. They could walk home afterwards and talk their own puberty stuff. Their colleagues called them gay, though the term was not really clear in his mind back then. His friend told him to come up to his apartment as he wasn't ready. He wasn't the paying a visit type, so he felt a bit uncertain about that, but there was nothing to do downstairs. A big man opened the door and by calling his name invited him in. Shook his hand, like men do. Told him his friend is just ready dressing up. While they were putting their shoes back on the big man asked his son if he needs pocket money. The son said no, but the big man gave him some anyway. Told them to have a juice or something, to have fun but to be careful. On their way down, in the elevator he told himself that this must be having a father...

He was running as fast as he was able to after he punched that kid in the face. There was just as much one could take from all the bullies. But the other man had bigger steps and lungs so he caught up with him easily. He felt grabbed by the back of his neck. Something cracked. Then the man starting slapping him while shouting: Touch my son again and i'll kill you. His attempts to tell his side of the story, that he was merely defending himself, were drowned in the blood he started to feel in his mouth...

That sentence she told him once got stuck in his head forever: He would have been your son from the very beginning if you would have wanted to...

When she saw him coming home crying and bleeding again her heart broke. She took him to the bathroom and cleaned him up. He was still shacking. Trying to explain something. But she didn't have time to listen. This was about to become one tough life lesson for her son. "Look, i can't protect you anymore. I am just a woman. You have to understand that you are not like the other kids. You don't have a father to protect you. And obviously you are not strong enough to defend yourself. So you have a choice: you either continue to go out but if you get bullied you don't come home crying, or you stay home where you're safe." Next day he made friends with a book...

I must have been 2 or 3 years old. Probably playing. Most likely following familiar people through the house. I remember getting into the bathroom with my father. He was urinating. He was not a big man, but looking from bellow he looked like giant to me. Most striking was his penis. Seemed enormous. I heard he knew how to use too. Two other things i haven't inherited from him...

... So what? You want me to stay here for you? To fulfill your dreams? Meaning what, that you've found a young girl and now you want to get married and have children or what? What? ...

He once told her one of his greatest fears. He was afraid that when the child will be born she will shift her love towards the child and he will feel abandoned. He feared that either he will do the same and thus their relationship will die, or that he will start hating the child. He was probably looking for some reassurance their love will not suffer because of a child, but it will grow stronger. Instead she was horrified. What kind of father hates his unborn child already?...

He doesn't want to have kids. He just doesn't. Did you know that? Well, yes, he told me that before we got married. But i've always hoped that was the young blood speaking. That in time it will change. Well, men are not really like that. Well, i see that now, but it's a problem. Why? Because i love being with him and our life together but i want to have children. Hmm. I have something to ask you. Please. If he will not come around by the time i'm 30 i will get a divorce. You want me to be your lawyer? No, i want you to be the father of my child...

Sex. Love. Love. Sex.

After she gave me her virginity, a fair trade with mine, I have asked:
- Why did you choose doing this with me and not with some guy you liked?
- Because you loved me, was her answer...

The bathroom seems like a pagan temple lit by candles. The bathtub is the holy altar, where the High Priestess performs her duties. She is down on all fours moaning something that seems like a chant. A mantra. Behind her, down on my knees i rhythmically  pomp myself into her. With every move the water ripples. Hate that damn noise. Doesn't let me focus. Doesn't let me complete this ancient ceremony. So i am doing it harder, and harder. And with each hard move i hear another sound. A hollow sound. The sound of her head banging on the bathtub. She's moaning in pleasure while banging her head on the metal wall:Don't stop, don't stop!

During our first crisis i said those words that still cause my amazement: How can we broke up? I love you the most and i haven't even made love to you...

After his mutilation she was really eager. Their connection was fading already and the physical pause was too much for a woman her age. Thus when he arrived she didn't wait for him to initiate things as she usually did. That would have taken too long. No. This time she jumped on him, ripping his cloths off, offering her full of desire body to him. She wanted to do it there, at the door, while standing. A quick hard romp. But he was under some sort of shock and was only half answering to her urge... A bit disappointed they moved on the bed, hoping that a more relaxed environment and cooling things down will help with his demeanor. To be more convincing, she went down on him for some oral arguments. Half an hour later, she raised her head in disappointment and loudly stated that he doesn't love her anymore. His answer was harsh in its honesty. I still love you, i just don't feel anything down there anymore. Relieved by his explanation, free of her guilt, she replied: Then why did you let me struggle for half an hour? For hope that i will...

The sad truth is that not any woman knows how to deal with a circumcised man...

 She just finished wiping his seed off her chest when the phone rang. Seeing the name on the screen she placed her finger on her lips signaling him not to make a sound. Hi, honey, she answered. From across the country her husband was suspicious that she's having an affair. Which of course she wasn't. Everything was in his jealous little head. Maybe he was having one and had a guilty conscience. Or he was getting paranoid. Relationships are based on trust. He needed to trust her to make it work. She loved him and wouldn't do anything to hurt him. Meanwhile the man in her bed was biting the pillow to prevent himself for laughing out loud. He knew she loves him and couldn't believe what an idiot the other man was to buy all those cliches. Three weeks later she left the both for a third one.

Casual drink among colleagues after work. The usual out of boredom flirts. One glass of wine, a joke, a gossip, a laughter. Eyes that shortly meet eyes. Then another glass. Good music. The others are leaving home. We should leave too, we have work tomorrow. Why, it's still early, how bout we get a bottle of wine and go to your place. Chat some more or watch a movie. Said and done. More wine. Couch is comfy. She touches him for the first time. Grabs his hand. Looks him again in the eye. Time for a kiss he presumes. Said and done. Then the usual routine for such cases. Accelerated breath. A dance of the tongues. One leads, one follows. Hand feeling through the cloths before removing them. Squeezing here, rubbing there, her hand shaking his member in fury. In 15 min his penis is covered in nail wounds. Hurting like hell. Hiding back within his body. Any trace of desire he had it is now gone. What the fuck she says. Don't you wanna do this? Actually i do. So what's the problem, don't you like me? No, it's not that. Then what is it, this is frustrating. She's right. It is. He would actually scream his frustration but all he wants is to see her gone. Pours another glass and tells her i think i had too much to drink... Maybe you should go home. We have work tomorrow. Sad and down.

The first time they got naked together they were young, pure and unaware. She noticed that hard appendix of his, raised up, tensed, begging for attention. She started playing with it, gently rubbing it up and down. While his pleasure was increasing, leading to the awaited explosion, his back arched and his breath accelerated. She didn't stop. Warm waves came out of him, sprinkling out of that flesh fountain. The seed spread all over him. She screamed and jumped up. Scared by his physical reaction. Terrified by his burning orgasm. Eyes wide opened, fixating those sticky stains. While she tried to deal with the reality of masculinity, he tried to deal her horror and disgust. Could you please bring me some tissues some i can clean my self up? She didn't move...

Their desire is desperate. She wants it. She wants it bad. He feels guilty. I could solve you easily he says. I don't want it like that she says. They separate from their embrace.

Waiter brings their coffees. The two women stop their conversation for a second and wait for him to leave. When he's gone, the younger one resumes. So what are you going to do? I'm gonna break up with him. But you said he loves you. He does, but that's not enough. He's lame in bed, doesn't know what to do with me. He will learn. No, he won't. What is exactly that he doesn't do? What is exactly that you want and don't get? I want to be fucked! Hard! I want him to grab me and fuck the brains out of me. To push me towards the wall, to throw me on the floor and force himself into me. To fuck me long and brutal. Like a man. He loves me and respects me. Thus he will never be able to do that. Love is an impediment to good sex. Check please.

"...- So?
- She told me once she always had good sex. Always. When I've asked her how is that even possible she told me she was lucky. Well, her luck ran out with me...
- Why do you think so?
- Because it was bad. Not for me (for me was great), but for her. It was quick (usual excuses: long break, too much desire), i refused her the pose she wanted, we didn't repeat it, didn't discuss it, three days later she broke up with me. Trust me. She didn't get good sex from me.
- Well, i don't know that for sure and neither do you. But what i do know is that she did get a lot of love..."

Love

It's too easy to empty a heart... How do you cover the cracks? How do you fill it back in?

Love must have a liquid form, a chemical structure. It pours. Takes the shape of its container. Occupies all. Interacts with all. Reaches most hidden places. And when cracks appear, it drains. It dries. The container dehydrates. Some just heal instantly, probably having a sort of sewage or drainage they control. Some use patches and plugs to stop the leakage. Some just dry dead.

It's hard to preserve self esteem when you're not even worthy of one hug...

When he first arrived at the scene the thing that struck him the most was the perfect order. Everything was in its place, perfectly categorized, arranged, inventoried. Carpet and floor were stainless. Walls as white as in a mental facility. Furniture dusted and waxed. Recently, judging by its reflection. The bed was done, and bathroom was perfumed. Out on the back terrace, lied the corpse. Out of it came one arrow. He ripped it out of his chest and checked the puncture wound. He trusted his forensic officer to clarify the situation. But the answer couldn't be written in the official report: This man died out of love...

The captain read the next day that an archer inflicted wound was the cause of death. The shooter was unknown and investigation was still on going, following several leads.

People need to make sense out of love. Being out of control scares them after a while. They decide they're better off without it. Love is a beast that must be contained. A pet that must be leashed or tamed.

For what they're concerned people leave you for two reasons: you love them too much or you don't love them at all. For what you're concerned they leave you also for two reasons: they didn't love you.

Snow. Carols. Santa. Trees. Holidays. Trips. Gifts. Family. Couple. Each season we are under constant attack from those promoting coupling, love, the beauty and advantages of a relationship. And each season the suicide rate increases in this period. Love is a pagan God demanding human sacrifices. Blood. Those who have it worship it and sacrifice to it. Those who don't suffer in its absence. Wish it and welcome it. Offer themselves on its altar. For businessmen, love is money. For undertakers it's a business with repetition. No one appreciates love and sensitive holidays more than funeral homes' owners...

Love cannot be explained. If it can, it's not love. It is a feeling which originates from beyond reason. You love somebody because you just do, and due to your love that person is beautiful, smart, funny, shelter. You see all flows and love that person even more. And despite all these, when love is gone, we seek for an explanation. We need to understand the end.

Hearts, brains and genitals are muscles. They can be trained. With a sufficient amount of exercise one can last longer: at the Olympics, at work, in bed. Love is the opposite. The more you try it, the less it feels.

Love is a perfume. In time, no matter how often you use it, it wears off.

When he woke up in the morning she was awake, but pretended not to be. Kept her eyes closed and accepted his kiss. Waited till he went to the bathroom. Listened to all the liquid sounds he made. Peeing. Flushing. Washing. At the sound of the shower she sat up on the bed. The memory of the last night when their bodies screamed for one another was still present. His body screamed loud but quick. Probably in time the eager beast could be tamed. But it was not her to do the job. She gently touched her intimate parts. The thought of him curiously made her wet. Slowly rubbing her fingers she dried the last remains of his love fluids coming out of her. She intended to take a shower as well, but realized that the only thing she wanted to do was to go home as soon as possible. While she got dressed love was vaporizing, turning into thin air, going back into the circuit. Tomorrow there will be another man she will wake up with. Perhaps another woman will wait for him to finish his shower...

Pictures

I wish i could capture music in a picture.

That tree was literally crying, bending down to the ground. The desert around it was overwhelming. Its solitude absolute. Its tears, solidified leaves. Sun cruelly standing still up in the sky. Our broken car was taking a warm rest on the side of the road. Help was probably on its way. While looking for a trace of a shadow a voice said: I know why that tree is crying. Someone died on it. That branch is perfect for hanging. Judging by her gaze that must have been my voice.

Help was still on its way.

Two lights speeding towards each-other. Like car games for children. Their white is perfect camouflage in the sunshine. Blinding windows. Inner explosions. Sounds of air attacks. They almost kiss in the parking lot. Doors open and they are running towards one another. It's like a reunion. A bloodied body is taken out on a stretcher. They try to push life into it through electrical wires. Blood slowly drips down in dust. The woman's angel flaps its wings desperately while electrocuted. She is in horror. The tree is still crying. Sun still cruel. Got a pulse someone shouts. They smuggle the reanimated bleeding body in the other car. Both take off in full speed and disappear over the hill. This picture was better in silence. Blood blackens while drying.

Where is the delete button?

Whenever i had a nose bleed or i would cut my finger i would drink my own blood and pretend to be a vampire. My mom said that drinking your own blood is a Jewish thing. She didn't say if it was good or bad. I've heard there are people who do that with their own sperm.

How do you put smell in a picture?

That day, in the garden of the memorial house I've smelled the wild roses. They were pink and resembled a mild death. I understood why he wrote those poems. A similar wild rose was growing inside of him. He probably inhaled one seed while dozing off in the shadow of that big tree.

How does an electrocuted angel smell?

She breaths heavily and stares into my eyes. Her lips are slightly open. Pupils dilated. Waiting to be ravished. I try to stop the beast that grows within me. Will is so strong i could tear her apart and feed with her flesh. How do you put desire in a picture? My blood is pulsating and i get numb. Dizzy. I feel all. I see all. I understand all. I am desire and death. She is an angel praying to be electrocuted. We kiss. We embrace. We touch. We collide. We die. We resurrect. We separate.

How do you infuse life into a picture? It's why they've invented the video-camera...

In 19th century people were taking pictures of their dead beloved ones. Sitting them on chairs or lying on their dying beds they were photographed as if they were sleeping. Their eternal sleep captured for eternity. (E)motionless. Before the first fist of sand fell on their coffins. A picture is an eternal memory of something that just ceased to exist.

Memory is a graveyard. Images of the past are tombstones.

 When the sun exhausted its fire help arrived. Towed us to the big city. They fixed the car in 12 minutes. One hour later we checked in the hotel. When diving into the salty blue water all the dust, the blood and the sunburn washed away. Saw her perky breasts facing the waves. Felt the warm embrace of the sea. Heard the sound of its furious passion. Left my self float. Liberated for a moment. Closed eyes.

To dream or to forget reality it's pretty much the same....

Same time next week?

Late. Dark night. Window shades. Outside, wind howling. Sometimes a car passes by. Shadows move slowly on the ceiling. It's warm. Unbreathable. Struggle to sleep. T-shirt stuck to skin. Sweaty. Knocking. Slightly. But persistent. Door lugged. Eyes staring. No smile. No words. Just a nervous tic with her tip toes. You're back. Nodding. Invites her in. Nothing else said.

Heavy rain. The Church looks gloomy. From behind plastic restaurant windows people stare. Rapid steps. And that water keeps pouring from the merciless sky. Eager and restless. Hopes. Familiar face. Whispered hello. Why don't you come in. It's horrible here. She knows. Nods. I'm waiting. The familiar face smiles. Understood. Small rubbing on the wrist. Good luck. The wind changes direction.

Finally sleeping. Exhaustion. Mental exhaustion mostly. Sounds from the lounge. Bottles. Laughter. Even sound of smoking. Inhaling, exhaling. Singing. It's life coming from far away. Waking up confused. Knock on the door can mean only one thing. Grabs the handle. She wants to say something. You're back. Nothing else matters.

Giggles. Children play in the park. Watches over them. Like a guardian angel. An angel with an iPhone. Checks the hour every two minutes. Not a single cloud on the sky. But the pressure. The burden. One day earlier sounded like a stranger. A stranger's voice. Already. But who's the actual stranger? Promise is a promise. And... What time it is? Gosh... Maybe should call this thing off. Beeping sound. I'm running a little late. 10 minutes tops. Taxi just came. Don't take it. Busy. Change of plans. Maybe later. Safer never. More and more excuses. Yeah, OK, i got it. Whatever. From across the city hear the disappointment. Anger thoughts. But it's better this way. Children still play. Why do you cry?

Knock on the door. Opens. The look is there. Smiles like nothing ever happened. May i come in? Steps aside.

Hey. Hey. Why? That's why. Still? Apparently. Pathetic. Maybe. Obsession. Yes. Not the type you think. But you go on doing this to yourself. I don't get it. I'm afraid to forget. Forget! You'll move on. Everybody does. It's the easy way out. I don't want that. I want to remember. It's already starting to fade away and it scares the hell out of me. How come? It's all i have left. But this way you'll keep on hurting. No. Hurting is to know you are not even a memory. Terrible fate. But won't let those cared about share it. Loser, you just need better memories.

Knock. Feels real this time. Heart pumping. Leaning on the morning wall gets slowly to the door. Grabs the handle. Takes deep breath. Opens. No one is there. Definitely real. Wakes up in sorrow. Sun blinding. City in bloom. Even dreams lost hope.

Smiles. She smiles back. How do you feel today? Fine. School? Fine. Colleagues? Fine. Mother? Fine. Novelties? No. Not really. Same all. Read a book. Good one? OK. A bit sad. About? Yes. How about? What about? Any dreams lately? No. They're gone. All gone. How does that make you feel? Fine. Give it some more time and it will be ok. OK. Smiles again. Same time next week?

Baricco's Emmaus

Road to Emmaus. Two people walk towards the city discussing the recent events in Jerusalem. A man approaches them for companion. He is amazed by their story, they are amazed by his ignorance. Jesus was captured. Jesus was killed on a cross. Jesus was buried and according to few witnesses he is resurrected. Alive. Again. When they reach Emmaus they invite their new acquaintance to dinner. When the man blessed the bread, they realize that the one standing at the same table with them is Jesus Himself. The moment He is recognized, Jesus disappears. no explanations given.

The most salient thing is the fact that in this story, no one seems to know anything. The starting point is complete ignorance. The two main characters discuss rumors. They mostly guess what happened based on the only known fact: Jesus was dead. Then it seems that not even Jesus is aware of the whole story. He listens to it like he wasn't its subject. The fact that He died and came back to life is a surprise even for Him. Then the veil lifting, at the dinner: when He blessed the bread, that's when they finally recognized Him. The mystery revealed, Jesus disappears. Makes you wonder if He was ever there and if the revelation wasn't more than a result of the thought.

This short interesting story is the starting point of Baricco's novel. Four youngsters, Catholics, believers, raised and educated within the Church's guidelines, virgins, struggle with the fascination for a liberated woman and with sexual desire. Their fantasy develops to the point where they are all sexually initiated by her in a sort of orgy. They then have to face the consequences of their acts and assume responsibility: one becomes a drug addict, one impregnates the girl, another one commits suicide thinking he's the one who impregnated the girl and the fourth one lives to tell the story.

But the book is not solely about the above story line. That orgy is quick, strange, weird, and disappears as fast as Jesus after being recognized. No, the book is actually about the road to Emmaus. About the guess. The figuring it all out. These youngsters don't know. Don't know anything. They just anticipate, talk about things they've only heard of. Women. Sex. Initiation. Adulthood. The transition is simple, unanticipated, quick. And instead of really answering their questions, it leaves them with even more. Some of them cannot even deal with its consequences. Knowing, finally knowing, brings an incredible burden and causes an incredible turn of events.

Another interesting fact is the meditation on the initiation. People shouldn't just make assumptions. Should be warned. Their families left them unprepared. Their education is more of a barrier than a mean of understanding. The woman who gave herself to all of them assumes that they all got it, that their sexual encounter meant nothing more than that. And she also assumes it's all out in the open, that in any case, the boys will come and ask if something is not clear. No one even considers the inner torment, the inner thought.

Appearances are as always deceiving. In the Emmaus story, Jesus doesn't appear to be Jesus. Nothing gives Him up: he's ignorant, curious, doesn't even look like Himself. The same in Baricco's story. The Saint, isn't really the holy one. The supposed suicidal father has no such thoughts. Quite the opposite. The good son ends up killing himself, hurting everybody around him because he assumes some facts to be true when they aren't. Even sexual initiation is something different than it is supposed to be: quick, dirty, strange, feelings free.

The story teller has seen his own Jesus. He now knows. He grew up. No notification given. What next? No one knows. He is just aware that something happened, that something is forever lost. As Jesus didn't stick around to explain to his companions what they have just witnessed it is their own job to find that sense. And that's the whole point of the story: experiences are given, they happen, but their meaning is something that is only ours to find. 

Day. Last

Early. Alarm. No need. Me. Happy! Shower. Brush. Get dressed. Eat. Coffee. Run. Cold. Bus. Red Line. Deak. Switch. Blue Line. Ujpest. Wait. Happy. Anxious. Mazda. Old. Green. Dirty. Purple. She. Beautiful. Kiss. Short. Speedy. Nervous. Szia. Me. Happy. Tickets. Two. To Paszmany. Stairs. Platform. Wait. She. Moody. Agitated. Me. Smiling. Train. Seats. Face to face. Read. She. On iPhone. Me. A book. Highlighting. She. Why? Me. To find. She. Ruins. Book. Me. Not book. Scholar book. Research. No ruin. Destination. Big yard. Administration. Papers. Teacher. Missing. Library. Computers. Wallpapers. Trianon. Red map. Great Hungary. Me. Laughing. She. Defensive. Exam. Me. Still happy. Hallway. Students. She. More anxious. Repeating. Preparing. Memorizing. Me. Looking. At her. Encouraging. Sure. Hour. Arrives. Examination. Start. She. Agitated. Stressed. Concerned. Me. Forgotten. Abandoned. Patient. She. Goes in. Me. Wait. This time. Worried. Listening. At the door. She. Talks. Answers. Questions. Hungarian. Incomprehensible. One hour. Passes. She. Comes out. Upset. Angry. Me. Concerned. Exam? Passed. Grade? Not good. Teacher? Furious. Offensive. Rude. She. Pissed. Crying. Upset. Down. Me. Comforting. She. Restless. Not listening. Not accepting. Me. Useless. Cafeteria. Food. Not much. Cold. Good. She. On the phone. Mother. Sister. Whoever. Me. Trying. To get through. Still to comfort. Pointless. She. Rejecting. Tickets. Station. Train. Crowded. Talking. Landlord. Issues. Me. Expecting. Support. She. Supporting. Her friends. Destination. Dorm? Concert? Discussion. Me. Coffee. Talk. She. Ok. Car. Drive. Coffee place. Parking lot. She. iPhone. Facebooking. Writing. Answering. Not paying attention. We. Enter. Sit down. Order. Me. Trying to talk. She. Still texting. Annoyed. We. Argue. A lot. About us. About me. Me. Upset. Annoyed. She. The same. Coffee. Done. We. Leave. Car. Me. Stop texting. God! She. Refusing. She. Driving. Lost. Use GPS. Find shortcut. She. Happy. About it. Me. Looking. Not knowing. What's coming. She. Parks. On side of the road. Me. Why here? Why not there? She. Not staying. Me. Still. Not understanding. We. Get out. Me. Walking. Towards dorm. She. Calls me. Back. Standing. Next to the car. She. Hugs. Me. Crying. Me. Starting to get it. She. Breaking up. With me. Hugs. Hard. Crying. Harder. Whispering. Me. Hearing. Cracks. Inside. Melted. Heart. Starting. To freeze. Back. Me. Trying. To reason. To talk. To comprehend. No use. She. Saying. Bye! Cold. Very cold. Freezing. Me. Concerned. Don't catch. A cold. Go. She. Getting back. In the car. Engine. Starts. She. Signals. Drive. Turns left. Disappears. Me. Empty. Senseless. Cold. Going. Slow. To the dorm. Memorize. Name. Of street. Cross. Go in. Warm. Elevator. Second. Floor. Room. Dark. Gifts. On table. Growing. Anger. Towards. Me. Sit down. No words. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Mea culpa. Silence. Finish. Packing. Shower. Brush. Mute. End. 

The man who chased ghosts

After she was gone, he kept on seeing her, kept on seeing her ghost.

Soon he realized he was the only one able to do it and everyone around thought he was losing his mind.  They were so convincing at times that even him feared they were right. But she kept on coming back. He was seeing her purple winter jacket on the street just to soon realize the city was filled with them. He was  recognizing her curly hair, while she was standing on the corner of the street, but when she was turning towards him, he could see it was not her. He even woke up one day feeling her sweet smell in the room. He waited 10 minutes for her to come out from somewhere, to make herself visible, just to realize that there was no one. Her ghost was everywhere. In photos. In desires. In dreams. And whenever he felt she nearly faded away, she was sending a sign from the other side, just to remind him her ghost was still around...

Friends, and not only, abandoned him. He seemed lost to them. Didn't understand his obsession for someone long gone. His inability to let go and move on. His answers or explanations. And all these cost him dearly. Ghosts don't just let go, he argued for a while, they are everywhere while nowhere. Sometimes they feel real. Sometimes they are real. It just takes additional senses to perceive them. And ghosts, it's common knowledge, stick around when there's unfinished business, although he was not sure whether the unfinished business wasn't actually his. That night, that last night, when she left and turned into shadow, things were done, clearly done, but definitely unfinished. For him at least. For him, willingly or not, she was still out  there.

But what he didn't realize was that while he was uselessly chasing her ghost, he was turning into one himself...

Oslo 31. August (spoiler alert!)

You pretty much know from the beginning what follows. This guy is on a death race. His day starts with meaningless sex, but a primary human function. He tries to drown himself in a river. No success. Drowning is painful and life instincts are strong even in those who don't feel like living anymore.

This is the day of his last attempt: either to live, or to die. He doesn't get his hopes high, he is scared of what he has to face, but he's willing to do it. Has to. He visits his best friend and his family. Apologizes. For the past. For the future. They catch up on others: past friends, past girlfriend. Maybe they should reconnect. Girl loved him. He's skeptic. His smile is bitter. Confesses lack of trust. Confesses lack of passion.  Confesses his wish to die. Not only his wish but his actual plan. Friend doesn't know what to say. Compassion and encouraging words are not really the key. Quotes from books neither, as a proof that wisdom and true lessons on how to live cannot be found in written / printed pages. Our guy learns that his friend's happiness is just an illusion. With a job, family and kids his friend feels as trapped and unsatisfied as he does. Just that he somehow got used to it. Got used to live like that. Building your own family doesn't seem like the answer anymore. No reason for envy, all words spoken, they part.

Next try is the job. A job he feels not suited for but all others think he'll do great. And the start of the interview is promising. He has input. Ideas. His brain works. Past talent is appreciated. But what about the gaps? How do you explain to someone that you screwed up? That you somehow took the wrong turn and now you're trying to get back. And you need some help. Or some support. The man in front of him demands honesty and full disclosure, but as usually he cannot deal with the truth. The guy realizes the job will not be his salvation. Not now, not ever. He leaves. Another door closes behind him, for good.

Here for the first time he takes his best friend's advice and calls his girlfriend, interacting with her answering machine.

The door of his sister is already closed and won't even open. The quickest result and probably the hardest shock. He cannot connect or relate to his own kin. His parents fled the country, enjoying their remaining years, his sister won't get in touch. She knows him. Doesn't trust him. Expects him to screw up again. She just sends him the keys of his last act.

The coffee-shop scene is probably one of the best. Perfect spot for observing the others without interfering. He gets to see if they are really alike. Talking about their issues, more or less meaningful. Complaining. Pretending. Dreaming. Wishing. Wasting time. People seem to be pretty much the same, and that is soothing. He decides to give himself a break, enjoy for a while simple pleasures of life: listening to children rehearsing classical music for a concert, going to a park full of people, lying on the grass, watching the sky, doing nothing, just remembering his parents. How they raised and educated him, how they screwed him up. So maybe salvation could come from embracing life and reality as it is. From this day dream, he wakes up alone.

The party is the starting point of his downfall. Old faces that remind him of the old self. People who celebrate the birthday of a girl whose birthday was a day later. Friends that don't really know each other enough to remember one simple date. Relationships long enough to last, but unaccomplished. It's all down the drain and this guy finds nothing to hang on to. Nothing! Old ways seem better so he starts drinking. To forget. To get numb. A girl with a beautiful smile sends him a direct message that she's available. Tells him where to find her later. Why not? Maybe now he will be able to feel something. Little pleasures of life.

Girlfriend still doesn't answer.

He pretty much expects nothing, so he must be prepared. Goes on with the plan. Buys the stuff that will provide him with a last, heart-blowing moment of happiness. That will bring relief with no pain. Then he goes to the bar. Finds the girl. Goes to a rave party. Loses himself in the crowd. Makes up with a total stranger. Still feeling nothing. Talking and kissing with the girl. Foreseeing her future: nights of meaningless sex and hook ups, many nights, like this one, that she won't even remember later. Just life as it is. "Having fun". Nothing of real importance. Rides a bike with the girl. Enjoys the cold breeze. Enjoys revealing small secrets of the town. Watches her swim naked while the sun rises. And as he watches it, enjoying the caresses of warm light, he realizes he is out of options. That his detachment is now complete. He needs to get home for the last time.

House is empty. All things packed. A sign that everyone is moving on. With or without him. Calls his girlfriend for the third time. This time to tell her the truth: it's good bye. And he's sorry. His actions caused and will cause everyone a lot of pain. To him as well, but he's taking a ticket out. The piano is just a memory and playing it is probably a recollection of his childhood when all seemed possible in that big house. Then the preparations. Relevant is the pooling of the curtains. Shading the room. Keeping the outside world outside. Isolating the exterior for the interior is already isolated. With the image also the sound disappears. The needle goes in. The guy goes down.

As life pours out of him we follow his steps back through that day. The pool over which the sun was rising is empty. The water is still. No smiley girls swims in it. The club is closed. The party house is asleep. The restaurant is deserted. So are the streets of Oslo. So is the forest or the room where he woke up in the morning.

The story is two times circular. It starts and ends with his suicide attempts. It starts and ends in the same place, with the same view. With or without him, the world goes on, remaining the same...

What do you say?

What do you say when you're out of words? Or when there's no one there to listen? Or when you reached that point where you're so empty, or you're living in a void, that you just don't feel anything, not even the need to speak?

What do you say when there's nothing else to say? When that awkward silence steps in? When you just don't see the point? When you know you're just repeating yourself? When you know there was no other way?

What do you say when everything's routine? Uninteresting, meaningless? When you know for sure how your 24 hours, your 7 days, your 12 months, your year will look like? When you don't have anywhere to go? Or when you don't want to go anywhere?

When you know your precisely your morning steps: wake up, same hour, no need for alarm anymore, it's in your system, make the bed, go to bathroom, start brushing teeth, go to kitchen, start boiling water for coffee, prepare the mug, keep on brushing, prepare the sandwiches, take out the milk, water boiled, coffee ready, reach for cereals, finish brushing, return to bathroom, spit, wash your face, pee, flush, wash your hands, on the way to the kitchen start laptop, bring breakfast, start some tv show, eat sandwiches, eat cereals, drink coffee, wash dishes while you wait for the bowel movement, go to toilet, get dressed, get to the car, 6 min, never more, two stop lights, maybe 3 when too much traffic, get to work...

When there's no mess around and when mess around brings up even more mess in the brain, pisses you off, laziness, carelessness, not giving a fuck, what do you say then? What do you say in those moments when you're just happy they're gone? Or in those when you wish you could see them one more time, at least to remember exactly how they looked like, how they were like?

When messed up people, people like you, or worse, or unable to deal with their own reality, running away from responsibilities, tell you to get a grip of yourself, to move on, to be happy/er, to say nice or better words, and you can't find them cause there's no such source inside yourself, what do you say?

When you know there is no real receiver in front of you, what do you say? Why would you say? When you're in a relationship and you feel estranged, when you see the other doesn't really talk, or doesn't really listen, and you know, you KNOW, your relationship is dead already, what can you say?

When you know that nothing matters, neither your job, neither your degrees, neither your principles, your education, nor whatever else you might think is of value, what can you say? When you know you don't matter, neither for your, nor for anybody else, and especially not for those you wish you would?

When you're unable to mime the existence of the others, although you might get their reasons, or even remember how it was to be like them, when all you have from your past are a few photos, some shinny stuff, a t-shirt you decided not to wash, a book, a note, a letter, an sms, or simply a memory, or a regret, what can you say?

When you know the past is gone and will never come back, when you don't know whether there is really a future, but just a projection of your own desires, and the present is just a postponement, a delay, a deep silence, or a terrible inner noise, why, why on Earth would you say anything?

Just stay still, close your eyes, and keep quiet! Keep quiet for good. It will all be over anytime now...

One more day

If I would have one more day with you, what would I do?

Would I take you to a beach, sit you on the sand, and hold you through the sun rise, swim you to exhaustion, gather grains of sand off your wet skin, kiss the salty water off you till my lips dry and start to hurt, read you from a book, while you turn darker, make love to you while the sun goes back down, wave good-bye to you while the moon emerges and you turn to shadow?

Would I take you to a gallery, place you in a painting or a mural, one of those post modern, incomprehensible ones, come back every day, sit down in front of your wall, and try to decipher you and where the lines used to be?

Would I take you home, to my room, bring you breakfast in bed, give you a long bath, wipe your body, slowly, kiss every inch of your skin, feel all your tastes on my tongue, cook for you while you would wear a cliche shirt of mine, and smile at me, uninterruptedly, would I make love to you, watch a fun movie, put you to sleep and hear your sweet breath next to me for the last time?

Would I take you to the park and watch children play while holding hands, like that day in Paris, behind Notre-Dame Church? Would I watch you day-dreaming and smiling, recording every single flickering of your eyes?

Would I take you to a down-low pub with live music, have a glass of wine, or more, and smoke a pack of cigarettes while listening to your beautiful accent? Would i drink myself to oblivion while you would vanish as a fantasy?

Would i take you to a far away country, walk and play with the baby all day, through the silence of the wind? Would i be, for that one day, the man you wanted me to be?

Would I take you to a square, big open square, somewhere, and ask you to marry me?

Would i open you up alive to see if my name was ever engraved on your beating heart?

Would i cut off and preserve your pretty head in a jar? Would i keep your body on ice, hoping to warm it up with the craziness from my heart? Would i brush your hair everyday, knowing how much you actually hated it? Would i pull out and carry your eyes with me in a golden box?

Would i torture you for the pain you caused me? Sit there and hear you screaming during paper cuts? Would i bathe in and drink your blood?

Would I just kill you, so no one else would have you? And/or would I kill myself, cause obviously there is no life without you?

Guess none of you will ever know...