Confession entry #1
July 2017
Mood: mixed emotions, feeling like disappearing into a deserted beach, taking a nap, making love, smoking -, singing a pointless song that won’t stick to her mind after several hours have passed, crying, going on an adventure – of what sort, it is unknown, but an adventure nevertheless-, forgetting the fact that it is Tuesday morning.
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She woke up wanting to sleep. She imagined – and she hoped – that the earth could shrink and fit in her ugly long-fingered hand like a little fragile glass ball so that she could squeeze the life out of it. How exhilarating would that be, to see the world crushing and melting through her hand!
She found herself questioning her existence over scraping food out of plates from last night’s dinner in a hot empty kitchen. There is indeed something peculiar in the internal discussions that take place while one makes simple chores. She sometimes imagined that the cleaning of the kitchen counter was, in some way, parallel to her efforts to clear her mind. Of course, it was quite the opposite; still, unexplained satisfaction derived from it.
And yet, another summer week had begun.
Sometimes she was fierce, funny, full of energy, full of love to give, ready to take on the world. Sometimes she wanted to dance around to stupid songs in sexy underwear until she could not catch her breath. Sometimes she was Port wine drunk between two lovers on a beach on a warm June night.
Then there were mornings when all she wanted was to hide in a dark corner and create something out of the cement that was her chest. The cosmic universe told her she was unique but unimportant, smart but a tiny piece of nothing; such conflicting statements the universe made. This battle has cost her, I reckon, quite a few litres of tears, which effortlessly came out of her eyes. She could sometimes weep for half an hour, take a five-minute break to blow her nose and momentarily get her shit together, until she fell right back at it, unstable and unable to stop.
Sometimes she was cheap beer drunk out of a coffee cup by an old man thinking whether to take a nap at six in the afternoon.
Crying was an important part of her life. The emotional state she was often in was caused by all sorts of things: the moon phases, her period cycle, the big life realisations and the big life decisions which she was not particularly good at, some depressing self-realisations (‘I lied and hurt people but I don’t know why, and I wish I had bigger boobs, can I make love stay? Please, love, do stay, I’ll be a good girl, or a bad one, I’ll pour my heart out until there’s nothing left of it, because I am madly in love like that, and isn’t life a game of risking it all? Otherwise, where’s the point? What is the point, really? Don’t let me down, self, get back on your feet and don’t let me down’).
She had a tender spot in her heart for delicious things and bizarre people. Or bizarre things and delicious people. She loved to taste the saltiness of the waves, the intensity of a good wine, her lover’s body, all of it, cold coffee running down her throat on a hot summer day, his lips drenched with water, his mouth paired with smoke, her tears escaping her eyes and smoothly gliding through her cheeks to reach the upper lip.
She thought of people as labyrinths; some were too complex to understand, others were coming with a detailed map, and the boring ones were always a straight line leading to nowhere.
She thought of people as fires. Some were candle fires, lighting her life for only so long, others were forest fires, bright and fierce and unstoppable.
But fire always burns.
a.