Sunday, December 29, 2013
Travel is useful, it exercises the imagination. All the rest is disappointment and fatigue. Our journey is entirely imaginary. That is its strength. It goes from life to death. People, animals, cities, things, all are imagined. It's a novel, just a fictitious narrative. And besides, anyone can do as much. You just have to close your eyes. It's on the other side of life.
Louis-Ferdinand Cellesse, Journey to the End of the Night
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
She had noticed her veins were melting. There was a coconut milk pouring out of them. She was lying beneath him, thinking why butterflies always breathe on her skin when she’s asleep.
She remembered that day when the whole world seemed like a never ending autumn and she was the only snowflake there, falling , melting and again falling and melting. That day she stopped feeling. An important part of her skin died and she buried it in a mango juice. He would always bring her a mango juice knowing how much she liked it. Mama said he came home for summer, to relax and think things through before the new term started. He just sat and sat in his room, close to the window watching a splendid view on the lake and little forest. He only smiled when she came in. He would tell her how lost he felt and how he struggled living among people. He felt like a cherry tree that could never blossom, like a dust flying in a tidy room.
She was so glad he was home, always climbing on his lap and watching sunset. Once he told her he was born with too much sadness engraved in his eyes and glued onto his eyelids. That’s why he couldn’t bear the sunlight anymore. Sunlight would change his skin into the cobweb. She said that maybe he feels sad because his heart is beating incorrectly. He seemed to be amused by it. She continued saying: you know when it’s full of orange marmalade. He laughed and cuddled her. That day he never looked through the window again. He became a little moth chasing the colours and autumn blossom.
There she was filling up with that tasteless coconut milk thinking how empty a person can make you feel. His breath and movements slowed down, he fell asleep and she chased that little moth in the dark.
She was sitting in a coffee bar, sipping sherry and looking at the beach. Some children were still swimming. Despite the warm sun she put on her trench coat and leather gloves. The seagulls were flying around and she couldn’t make herself write him a letter. Not being able to talk to him on the phone, she thought the letter could work. She could write anything she wanted, maybe a little story.
She wrote him about the time when she used to fish with her grandfather. She didn’t like it, didn’t have a patience to wait and be quiet. Eventually she told her grandfather she didn’t like fishing at all. He looked at her with a smile saying: ‘Well then you won’t be able to catch a moonlight star!’ ‘The moonlight star? What is it, grandpa?’ she asked him with curiosity. ‘It’s one of the most precious things in the world,’ he said. Since then she’d never miss fishing time with the grandpa, desperately wanting to catch the moonlight star. After grandpa’s dead she forgot about it.
She stopped writing and wondered why she remembered this part of her childhood. She was mad at herself not being able to write him that she missed him and that she would come back eventually and that they could make everything beautiful again. She paid the bill and walked around the beach. There was a fisherman sitting on the cliffs. She walked towards him and sat on a rock. His face was covered with wrinkles and his eyes focused only on the sea. Suddenly he caught something and was pulling it out. She was watching him excitingly. It wasn’t a fish but a can of coke light. She started to laugh, thinking how silly that she was expecting to see the moonlight star. Fisherman swore and cursed at his unfortunate catch. When he threw the can away, she picked it up and walked away. No one said that the moonlight star can’t look like a can of coke light.
She was putting an innumerable amount of make up on her already perfect face. She couldn’t stop thinking it wasn’t enough. She couldn’t bear the look on her so familiar face. She couldn’t stand her broken eyes that couldn’t see any other colour than red. Her nose only smelled burning candles. Her ears could only hear Mozart’s Adagio. The only thing she could taste was honey and red lipstick. It was too much for her and it bored her to death having to look at her face. She wanted to turn into a porcelain doll, with perfect complexion, blank eyes, sealed lips, still hair and delicate nose. Not feeling anything and not having to make decisions. To be death and insanely beautiful at the same time. That’s what she wanted.
He came in, told her how beautiful she was, not needing to use more make-up. He didn’t understand. Never did. He hoped he made her feel happy and delighted by saying these words but she was only dying inside, desiring to scratch off his face and hers too. She despised the scent of his skin smelling almost like petrol and cold coffee. She put on her silk dress and diamonds, deliberately not wearing any underwear so she could drive him mad, so he would starve and crave for something she’d never give him. She put one more layer of make-up on her face, looked at the mirror wanting to rip her eyes off. She smiled bitterly thinking about all the people who will stare at her in awe and telling her how beautiful she was. They always did.