Monday, March 28, 2011

Us and them

When they understod that he wasn't going to join them, the young radicals turned against him. Don't be so fucking selfish, they said. Ok, so your father killed himself, big deal. There's always someone who suffers more than you, you should care more about them and discard your puny self pity. What good is a society if we don't stick together?

He knew exactly what they were trying to tell him, and he hated it. They wanted him to renounce his own life for the benefit of others, and more specifically, for the benefit of the young radicals. They wanted to use him as a tool for their own purposes, their own narrow minded self-indulgence, and pass it all off as altruism.

The hypocricy made him sick, but he had finally reached his last year in school. Just one more spring and it would all be over.

Monday, March 14, 2011

I've said too much, I've said enough

S comes to me through an ever so hypnotic daze, dancing on top of the raindrops like a butterfly. She speaks, I see her lips moving but I register no sounds. It must be the alcohol, strange things can happen after a bottle of Burgundy wine. She has a redish, almost purple, stain on her silk jacket, on her left breast. I stare at it, it stares back at me. She notices, looks at me and smiles like only she can. I'm slowly melting, my body as tense as a violin string in the ouverture to Tosca. On her bed, right beside her, I slip in and out of a sleep-like state of physical numbness, listening to her breathing getting heavier, more erratic. I suddenly regain feeling in my left hand, on the inside of her warm soft thigh, halfway up her cream-white Versace dress.

Is it just a dream?

Friday, March 11, 2011


Late night between thursday and friday, I'm in a car, passing places where events have taken place, stories been told, hearts broken. They're dark and cold now, almost dead, as if nothing ever happened. Where does time go when we rush past it, where do we go when time rushes past us? Who's moving and who's standing still, waiting for something or someone?

I remember just driving, having all the time in the world, never thinking of a better tomorrow. Passing places that were alive, feeling alive.

I fell asleep and dreamt about butterflies, again.

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Mad world

When does life get real? Different people would probably give different answers to that question based on what they've seen and where they've come from. Some would say it's when you discover a meaningful purpose for your existence, something to love and hold on to. Others might say it's when you find God or face your biggest fears in life, when you overcome challenges or live up to your full potential.

My father would said it's when you notice how people constantly try to screw you over. It would be easy to write him off as a simple cynic, but he had every reason to be one. He had already seen how various groups tried to fool him into believing they wanted what was best for him, when in reality all they wanted to do was to profit from his misfortune. He had learned from that, he had learned that a valueable quality in every human being is mistrust. Taking care of your own person means being suspicious, especially towards those who talk to you as if you were a friend when in reality they don't even know you.

Maybe, he thought, people are different on the other side of the Atlantic. Maybe those people are honest and well-meaning, maybe I would be better off around them.

And sometimes, he thought, "maybe" is good enough.

Saturday, March 5, 2011

You're searching for good times, but just wait and see

I've always had a schizophrenic relationship with nostalgia. In certain moments in my life I've wanted to freeze time and hold everything exactly like it was right there and then. From the outside it seems to be the easiest way out, but in reality it's not. Lingering in lost times is merely destructive in the sense that they will never come back like they once were. And hoping for them to repeat themselves in a new era is useless since the second time is never more than a bleaker image of the first. I think you've all experienced that at one point or another.

And no matter what you want to have me belive, life is limited, time is ticking because every day we come a little bit closer to the end. Wanting to stay frozen in the finest moment of your life is therefore nothing but an illusion, a self-deception that will sooner or later explode in your face, and by then it will all be too late. You won't be able to change the things you hate about life and yourself, and what you once loved is forever lost except for the precious but slowly fading memories in your head.

For my father, the illusion of a happy home broke down and shattered like glass right before him, so he had no choice but to move one. You could call it a blessing even though it sounds harsh, because he instantly knew he wasn't really happy with anything. Not that he had thought so before, but he had kept his pain and sorrow locked up air-tight, afraid of a possible change for the worse. It's how the human condition works, we're conservative even with the things that slowly kill us. It might not always be a good thing to pick up your belongings and leave everything you had behind, but the least you can do is evaluate it and think: is there anything else?

My father saw his future on the other side of the Atlantic, and until he was old enough to go, he was ready to put up with whatever mind-numbing bullshit his society dealt him. Time was after all on his side.

Thursday, March 3, 2011


After the missionaries came the young radicals. It was capitalism that killed your father, they said. These new times pose a threat to all of us, we must come together in order to fight those who want to exploit us.

These young men were rabid and impatient, always searching for an enemy, real or imaginary, to defeat and destroy. But my father was tired of those perpetual battles, tired of destructiveness and the use of force over thought. He only saw an intellectual dishonesty and another form of hypocrisy in those people who called themselves progressive. What ever was so forward moving in the idea of demolishment and war?

He found himself trapped between these various formations who all tried to kidnap him with different versions of the same moral justifications. They all wanted the same thing: to wear him down mentally and use him as a tool for their own gains, like a cult. He was never going to be that person, he had already seen what the selfless struggle had done to his father. He might have thought he was an independent man fighting for a good cause, but when he failed no one was there to pick him up and say thank you for trying.

He had seen it happen, he was there, on the inside, to witness it with his own two eyes. That was plenty. He was never going to be that person.

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

Not so amazing grace

It seems to be a part of the so called human nature to try and benefit from other peoples' tragedies. Everyone does it, but the level of subtlety varies. Some are easy to spot and avoid, others work on a whole other level and appeal to your most sincere state of vulnerability.

You need to find Jesus, they told him. Only God can make sense of the senseless and bring meaning to that which seems inane. He could smell the hypocrisy from miles away, and was only infuriated by the flagrant lack of actual answers. The lord works in mysterious ways, fuck you.

He didn't need specious comforting, he didn't need someone to tell him how he should feel or what he should envision in order to reach "salvation", whatever that was. His father was dead, period, and now was the time for action, not empty words. He made a vow there and then never to make excuses or see things for something other than they really were. He needed to stay true to his own ideals, not those of others, and never to succumb to collective moral judgements. Such was the standpoint born from tragedy, to his own benefit, but it was never going to be easy.