“There’s something sad about people going to bed. You can see they don’t give a damn whether they’re getting what they want out of life or not, you can see they don’t even try to understand what we’re here for. They just don’t care… That is perhaps what we seek throughout life, that and nothing more, the greatest possible sorrow so as to become fully ourselves before dying.” – Louis-Ferdinand Céline
The submissive days were persistent even in times of true realization of the dry spaces out of town in the city in her eyes. Cutting the edges of any sentiment, going out drinking looking at people how vain they were how much better I was. Sipping champagne and shots, empty heads and empty souls, who were I to judge, I was as empty as them trying to keep my mind miles away from her transparent skin her ridiculous hope for a future that was never coming in such desirable circumstances and comfort zones, when our heads were spinning around but we rolled our focus on; I finished my drink, whenever whatever was happening I was glad there was something even if all there was left was the taste of a post-rain talk. I would hold on for a moment see what pain and pleasure were about in this small world of ours, among the abundance of it all, did it even matter which one we got? Mixed up in the air, soaked up in hopeless noises, I watched those sensations go away, couldn’t get used to her silence but I got used to it, everything failing breaking slipping, it was kinda alright, I got in the mud, crawled back and forth, saw rivers and oceans and hills and she was near but it was too late and I had the company of others; It was all just a trick, or so to speak. It was more than a trick, much beyond the chit-chatting in the streets, the long wait for next year when we granted that things would magically change and our feelings would find their form, vain thoughts and desires, disposable souls and mountains of rain.
Urgent gates opening and closing playing ‘catch the right moment’; constant yawning faces missing the exit, glued to those too well-known beds towns and universe, hardly bearing the whispering out there in the wild, the tales filled with nothingness and nothing but distance, longings for the disappearance of this contentment this sterile life we slaved for, working drinking fucking, dying trying or giving up, over-spending for bottles clothes and stuff, lonely. Tracking those noises outta the gate lets go there with or without the booze, the cash. We gotta go there where none of this pointlessness would reach us and trick us to the nets of anything that wasn’t vivid that wasn’t awake and wasn’t as real as the pure blank stare at the stars we hadn’t had time for in something like a decade or more. I’d do it now I’d watch the stars but it was winter and there were no stars. Only thing left to think about between the walls and the sealed gates was the brokenness of us, the triviality of work and worries and her untraceable destination to places I hoped made a little bit more sense with a little more stars up there.
A mad impulse for infinite skies indefinite promises tiptoeing and spinning in my head in my bed; nights seemingly longer with unstoppable sleepless and frozen clock-ticking, based on other people’s precisely measured lives of light and dark but I was not them and there were no nights, there was no Christmas. We counted the hours, miscounted the detachments to get rid of, to endure to do anything with, because it was getting heavy and only witnessing and waiting didn’t do much. We had to jump out of these beds, leave the clubs ditch the screens and snapshots, go deeper into the true aching behind time – we shouldn’t have to go through our whole lives making believe how happy we were how important how desired and wealthy we were. Let’s trigger something out, souls beaten up by worries about food, rent, success, show-off, luxury and power. What was beyond all longings and greed, what was life really about if for once we had it all and we were in peace and we were loved with nothing on our minds but the sensation of our existence? Was that the final goal, was that what we were all aiming for? How were we supposed to get there in the midst of this crazy self sufficient, huge world of ours where if we couldn’t type, we’d never speak. Vibrations of throwing words out, high up in the crowds in the city stars and air planes, naked words that didn’t make it to the screens; but we weren’t speaking and we didn’t stop waiting for a message waiting for a new life to start, but how I couldn’t figure out, when nights never came.