You decide to hit your head against the sink. You are very drunk, but the pain is nevertheless exquisite. You do it again, and again. She will never come back… again. Is that blood? Yes. Again. Something cracks. Is it the sink, or your head? You aren’t sure, you are extremely drunk, and the blows to your head aren’t helping either. Again. Your vision blurs… at last, you think, some results. Again. The sink cracks. The landlord will simply have to replace it. Again, again, again… again! My God, the pain! Get it done! Again! She will never come back! Again! You pass out and fall on the hard white tiles.
It was one of those cry for help things.
So you’re in love and she isn’t anymore, and you lie alone in bed, trying not to think. She’s the best thing you ever had. Even as the thought occurs to you, you know how cliché that sounds… but there it is. She is creative, intelligent, passionate, capable of deep feeling, and honest. She doesn’t want to hurt you, she just can’t love you anymore, and is being honest. But you can’t help being hurt. You feel like a dog that’s just had it’s leg torn off, and stands there, utterly bewildered, blinking stupidly at the stump. Not yet even remotely comprehending how, or why. In a state of shock.
Unfortunately, you are not a dog. If you were, you might think: fucking bitch… she smells so good… oh well. You would go on with your life without worrying. But you are cursed with the ability to think, being a big-brained ape with nothing better to do. So you think of the promise you made. You never actually said „I promise“, but the promise was there, in your heart, clear and sweet like the air after a thunderstorm. She knew that, she saw it in your eyes, she felt it in your hands. She heard it and read it in the beautiful words you unfolded before her in a calm stream of love and certainty. That’s why she waited so long. Longer than she actually could… she counted on you, and you failed her. Circumstances prevented you, you say to yourself, and it’s true enough, but nevertheless you wonder what you could have done, what desperate measures might have led to salvation in spite of it all. You were already on the verge of doing something insane when she pulled the ripcord. You felt in your bones that things were getting ticklish. Circumstances! The word threatens to split your head.
It’s bitter. So damned bitter. You’d rather kill yourself than taste that taste; but it would be tantamount to cowardice not to face the facts. She’d pity you then, and hate you for betraying her belief that you are a good person, strong, a man worth loving… no matter whether she loves you anymore or not. That would be worse than anything you can think of, for even now you still want to please her. It is better, in that case, to drink some more wine. But even drink doesn’t help in the least, much to your chagrin. You drink more, and more, and even then… what’s the point in drinking, when it doesn’t stop the pain?
So, what recourse do you have? Face up to the horrid truth: you’ve lost her. The one that got away, like some damned fisherman’s tale.
She never did you wrong. If she had, you could at least indulge your mind in thoughts of morbid revenge, or in the belief that she isn’t good enough for you. Not even this avenue of emotional escape is open to you, and you begin to wonder if you can ever even stop loving her. You’d cry if you had any tears left. You contemplate the stump. Blinking. Stupid.
Listening to Don’t Bother Me from the Beatles.
I stood on the mountaintop, laughing at the fools below, and a little man came up the path and asked me, what was I doing? I told him, it’s none of your bee’s wax, upon which he tugged my sleeve insistently, and told me I had an arrow that belonged to him… What is this arrow you speak of, you fat little man, I asked. There are no arrows here, only snow, and hard cold stone, of beauty unsurpassed, with the exception only of the warm beauty of my bride. Ah, he said, the very arrow I speak of is lodged in this woman, your bride. I’ve run out of arrows, there simply aren’t enough to go ’round. I need it back!
A terrible thought entered my mind: that if he got his arrow back I would lose my bride. My face went black with rage, and I struck the little man a blow, so hard that he stumbled, and fell from the mountaintop with a faint scream to the fools below. In that moment I knew that my bride was now after all lost to me, and that my days were cursed.
I descended among the fools, and I was as a fool, and I was no longer myself, and my bride saw me but did not know me, for I had killed the fat little man, and with him all love was let out of the world, with a vast, deep sigh. There were no more arrows, no more love. Nevermore. And I wept, fool that I was, and did not know why. I wept, and I woke up weeping.
I’m all used up, and I’m all turned around. Panting, eyes bloodshot, goin’ down. Fuck work. Fuck taxes. Fuck you. Fuck countries, borders. Fuck it all. Fuck the god damned dentist. Fuck the law. Fuck me. Fuck politicians. They have no power over me. Cuz I’m goin’ down. Got no hold on me, cuz I got no hold on me. Lose hold of yourself, and you are lost to the world. No one can control you, unless you allow them to. It may be the most horrible form of freedom there is, but it is true freedom. What… what? What’d I do? Why are you looking at me like that? Did I do something that offended you? Or something disgusting? Is it that horrible, so horrible that you have to look at me like that? Is it something you’ve never done yourself, or never at least thought of doing? Have you truly never found yourself in my situation, or at least come close? Well, then, I feel sorry for you. You need to give yourself some slack, dude. Ease the reigns. You too can fuck everything. Merry New Year.
I hear you scream. Well, what do you want me do about it? Should I be hypocritical and say: poor thing. Or: you’ll be fine, don’t worry.
Do your thing. And if you fail: tough tits, try again. Believe me, the entirety of humanity is just as devoid of a plan as you. Most of them have even less of a plan than you do, if that is a consolation. I know it is hard to believe, but it’s true.
Do something. No matter what. If you have an idea, any fucking idea at all, you are in front of half of humanity already. And if you stick to it… well, aye.
Perhaps you are just a mouse. But you’ll be fine with that as long as you always give the finger to the eagle. Do your thing, be aware that you are necessary. The eagle is nothing without the mouse. Mice rule the world, as long as they are aware that they can give the eagle the finger. Be rude. Most of the eagles are just mice anyway. They are just as afraid as you. Quite possibly more so. Somebody put them there and said: you are an eagle, boss the mice, dammit.
So do your thing. In the end, there is no one to stop you but your own bloody helpless self. You have the power. Power. You. Yep. You are the boss of you.
Words, dripping with meaning. Like sponge-cake saturated with honey. Disgusting, sticking to your fingers… my God, soap and water, quick. Don’t touch me! Spit it out, brush your teeth, damn you, you… you author!