Prelude


Instead of sinking my teeth into the lusty pile of erotic literature I dragged along on my flight, I started writing love poetry. Raw, melancholic, longing. Thorns stripped from the roses. As if a lover was left in the country below. A lover I will never see again, yet loved intensely. A lover with whom I had those magical moments only the brave who dare surrender ever experienced.

As if afraid to lose the sweet illusion forever I left them without a note, without a sign and forgot their address. They became perfect phantoms, sought after illusions, living their own life in my solitary flesh. Each one for each cell of my body.

I relived the day once more. Remembered how I woke up, what I ate, how sad I felt parting this temporary home. Every single place wore that sacred tag where I woke up in the morning. Those few seconds of extreme happiness after you open your eyes and feel a complete individual. You recollect your senses quickly afterwards, retain the memory of location and switch on the self protection devices. Ready to face the world wearing the illusion of thicker skin.

Lights guided me through deserted streets. Not a breathing soul looking for a companion. As if everything has been swept clean during the night and all dirt never existed.

The airport greeted me like a huge monster made of stone, glass and light. I returned the car to where it belonged. Raindrops fell cold and lonely on my skin and made me even sadder.

While waiting to access the departure hall my sight stopped on a family. A man, a woman and their two children: a boy and a girl around nine years of age. The man said good-bye to the woman and kissed the boy on the forehead. The daughter, who resembled her father more than the boy, didn’t seem to interest dad a slightest bit. When he departed she waved at him and followed his figure untill he entirely disappeared. Her wave was returned without any expression of joy. The child dived deep into herself and developed a deep frown between her eyebrows. She did not understand! And for a moment it looked as if she was punishing herself for being a ‘wicked child’. Would daddy love her otherwise?

Her mother scanned the hall for the sight of her husband as well, but realized she was too late to catch it.

I observed them sharply, as if invisible. How alike they were! The woman seemed a clone of a man, a female copy. The kids - a well balanced combination of the two. How much love and longing there was in that woman’s eyes! How envious I felt towards that joy. I wondered whether she was afraid of never seeing him again.

She gazed at her offspring and calmed down. He was here. He was present in them.

I observed further.

The hall was packed with people eager  to leave for their destinations. All waiting patiently in line to have their guts and bags screened. All were potential criminals and terrorists in the eyes of security service employees.

The personell was loudly reciting the same sentence over and over again. It was early morning so you did not seem to annoy them yet. The plastic trays for your, in my case, shabby belongings had the toxic colours of a children’s playground. Toxic pinks, blues, greens, yellows... The whole scenery reminded me of legoland blown up to real life mm. One mad playground full of bad actors. Some pretending to be something they could never embody and others acting as if they never cared they should at least try.

I spotted a young woman three rows to my left. Blond hair till her waist. Eager to discover her face I focussed on her to turn towards me. After all those years I was still on the outlook  for a woman who was beautiful from the back, the front and also on the inside.

She turned. And left me disappointed.

Another fantasy shattered to pieces. But well, I asked for it.

I paced towards my gate. For a cheap flight you have to wake up at the dead of night and walk an hour to your gate. There were few people on my route. Some were probably very important for they blocked the way and stepped aside reluctantly after being asked to move.

The plane was in my opinion half empty and not half full. Two blondes, twins, in their early twenties, with profound wrinkles due to all that hard life under the solarium sun, wearing same white sweaters, exclaimed with upper excitement to the men sitting in front of them: ”We are no assistants!” Released sexual tension made me wanna use the vomiting bag. Like cheap  perfume it suffocated both slices of my brain and left all of my five senses amputated.

Cabin crew has finally announced the lights would be dimmed during take off. I sank deeper into my chair and drifted off to the land of memories. All those men that claimed to love me. The more they shouted they did, the more I abused them. Most of them were just an entertainment device purposed to kill time and prevent boredom.

All their devotion and addiction boosted my ego. Lined up to choose from, screaming to be abandoned after giving their heart and soul. I was simply fulfilling their urgent need to be destroyed by a beautiful woman. Destroyed by their devouring love for her.

Was I still hoping for an existence of a man out there who would be able to understand my persona and dare excavate the waters lying underneath all that overexposed mud?  Will he accept instantly that I can never be contained, possessed, claimed? That I could not be owned? That I was a solitary nocturnal creature; a wolf, eternally howling at the moon, pleading her to be my mirror?

Wolves mate for life. Although polygamy was something  I could defend in court for hours, deep down inside I still longed for a man who could remain a mystery  even after fifty years of marriage. Someone with whom you could communicate through the eyes, no words required. Someone who could tickle my fancy, so to speak.

Until that day would come I hunted excessively and tasted different kinds of meat. Only to be left disappointed soon after. You met, you had drinks, you ate, you had sex, you jerked their masks off, discovered their tricks, you ran away as fast as you could. Before they’ll get emotionally attached and start sucking you dry with their insecurities and getting on your nerves.

Your hunger had to be stilled, so you hunt on. Secretly hoping that one day, one day... You tell others you gave up on love, but secretly you’re full of it but noone to give it to.

To some I left a piece of my heart. I wondered if they knew what they possessed and if they wanted such a burden...


The plane flowed towards the rising sun. The moon the colour of blood started to disappear under the horizon. Everything began to catch fire and the darkness was left behind our outstretched wings. The fields of clouds looking like virginal cotton wool rolled underneath our man-made bird and one second it felt as if I was left behind, standing on those soft fields of clean clouds, no possessions, no need to eat or drink, no strings attached. Would I finally feel free? Would I finally merge with the elements? Would I finally understand the essence of true happiness and purpose of life?

Agreed on what i would be wearing. A long dress. Hair? Down. Mood? Next question.

Would I leave this existence if some supreme force would invite me to join? Would I at once abandon this body and take that first step towards infinity never to return again?

Without a doubt. What else can a person for whom everything seems to go too slowly in a day where in twenty-four hours aren’t enough, wish more than to be ahead of all parting?


And at least ten whole steps.



1


This love is like a chronic disease.  It needs chronic medication, it has its sickly ups and downs. It tires you. It is costly. Yet it makes you feel like you belong, like you are part of the system. Cure does not exist, and even death will not do you part. Healing? Keep it as far as possible. For you’re comfortable with the status quo, with this persistent impossibility of communication, with the quick fixes of cure. When silent treatments mean more than actual words, and sex speaks louder than actions, all you can hope for is a bullet through your pained head, delivered to you straight, preferably by another, in an ultimate climax of irreversibility, all in the name of love.

A sacrifice, disguised as murder, an ultimate prize. The father of children you buried; first in your dreams, then in waking life. This is all we never had.

Love has no room in a world occupied by mortgages. It has no space in hospitals, where babies get thrown into this world through intense suffering, covered in blood, slime and pieces of womb. When placenta is cut off, the child starts to seek nourishment through another, for the rest of this flesh’s existence, even willing to kill for it.

Sometimes, in the shadows, I hear you whisper my name. In the faces of others, I see your echo reflecting. In the end all of this leaves a disillusionment of sorts, for faint fragments only mirror the real. We all live through each other, in each other. We are either Monday, or Friday, or an occasional Sunday. Yet, we want all seven days in a week. Docile and trusting, like little pups on a leash, we expect others to lead us into nirvana of infinite dog biscuits, without any effort nor cost to our paws attached.

I did it better, for I was a cat. I killed, I broke, I laughed, I cried. I never fucked anyone I thought I didn’t love. I kept my freedom, destroyed my illusions, and got stuck with darkness expanding in the depths of my heart. Growing like a black void, like a universe on its own, yet without stars, sucking all other galaxies in. To all men who craved to be destroyed, I was the remedy, the medicine, the beginning of a chronic disease, which I spread like honey all over their lips. Never hating anyone, never loving anyone either. Did I care? Maybe. Perhaps a blue Monday. Aware of my own mortality, I never spared theirs. After two weeks I forgot their names, a process which started after washing their blood off my hands.

My lot lived fast, died young. The ultimate curse, the ultimate worse nightmare, the contrast with mundane dullness of life led by plain majority who would only qualify to be the stuffing of this earth, keeping it in balance. Objects, not subjects. Emptiness of atoms - embodied.

This kind procreates, then vanishes into nothingness. Once their clocks strike death, they don’t leave chaos behind them, only dull tidiness, and vague recollections by family and friends. No one hated them deeply, as no one ever loved them deeply either. They had everything under control, or so they thought. They never tasted the drug of cruelty, which makes its victims feel so alive, serving their good. The bombs never got strapped around their hearts, and no faith ever brainwashed their doings.

In the world of the real the real doesn’t exist, and love takes whatever form we are ready to envision. His charming dandy exterior concealed a stinking sewage within its depths....




to be continued...