Throwback – I’ll never stop giving up

*stream of consciousness*

I sit, and I wait. Sitting and waiting. And I hope that no one will ask what I am waiting for. I would answer “Life”, and they would quote John Lennon “Life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans”. And they wouldn’t even know that it’s not a simple quote but that this sentence is a line of lyrics from a song he wrote for his beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy Julian. And I would bite my tongue because information like that is plenty in my brain. It’s just – no one cares about it. And that’s why I keep sitting and waiting. For life to happen. And to understand it. But that is not entirely true. Because from my place, I have a nice view. I observe and analyse, and I keep to myself. The things I know, are not the things I need to share. But on the other hand, all the half-truths and snippets of misinformation I know, are not the ones others want to hear. It’s a circle. And if I don’t find the right corner to get off, I will stumble, and my clumsy attempt to catch myself will end with me lying face down enduring the spiral, the slipstream that brought this upon me. Upwards or downwards? Which way does it go? Maybe just sideways? Either way, I will end up puking on the floor and emptying what little is inside me. All of it, until the heaving is dry and the acrid smell of bile chases everyone away. Everyone left the building. Including me. I need to pay attention to the little things. Hold on tight to the pillars of this meagre existence, to keep myself from stumbling. And while I am doing just that, all these unfiltered thoughts are rushing down onto the screen.

I put the cigarette to my lips and inhale. No filter. Rolled with my own shaky hands. Because – yes, why? Because it is edgy. Cool people roll their cigarettes themselves. It’s all pretending anyway. Oh yes, I’m a great pretender. Who gives a crap about my cigarettes and my thoughts. But I keep writing. Someday, the romantic voice inside of my head suggests, someone will read the mix of weirdness and eclecticism my brain produces. They will beg me to publish a book – a memoir – a biography of this writer and all will be good. At least, I have dreams. The other possibility, far more probable, is that the words stay unread. I will die in a stuffy room with overflowing ashtrays and too many empty bottles.
Maybe a cat or two. Sheets of papers with the start of the next big novel is strewn across the floor and the bed — music loud and on repeat. And in the centre of it all; me. Picture me like Jimi Hendrix, suffocated on my own vomit. A rock star death. Don’t be alarmed, though. I am not a rock star. I don’t play the guitar well enough and all in all, I am just a coward who never did any drugs. On second thought, aren’t most rock stars ridden with anxiety? Isn’t that why they turn to alcohol and drugs and whatnot? Always on the hunt for the next high? But one day your brain (and your soul too), are just too used to the girls screaming your name and the papers printing your photographs, your name in the headlines. And while you pretend to crave your privacy, the thought of being left alone and forgotten scares you to death. And so you power on, with some chemical help, because you couldn’t do all the shows and interviews and all that other crap that comes with being famous, without it. I don’t envy these people at all — not one bit.

And so I stare out onto the lake. The sky is grey; the water is too. And I wait for the next idea to come up. A real writer wouldn’t wait. They would write. Or am I wrong and a real writer would draw charts and write every idea down? Being organised? Where’s the fun in that? So – no labelling my ideas. Just sitting. Waiting. Staring. Smoking. And while I am doing that, the music plays softly in the background. It’s not loud enough to drown out the voices that keep telling me that I am a waste of talent. I can still hear them judging me and how I spend the days. For them, I am doing nothing. For me, I am savouring the moment. It’s as a friend told me once: We need time to understand who we are before someone else comes along and makes us into the version they want us to be. So maybe – just maybe, my answer to the question “What are you waiting for”, would not be “Life”, but maybe the truer answer would be “To understand”. I guess the reaction would be close to the same. They would urge me to get up and do something.

But, if they don’t see it, does that really mean that I am not doing anything? Because in my mind, eccentric as it may be, I am doing a whole lot. I am not giving up.

###

Author’s Note:

Written in March 2016.

I haven’t had a cigarette this year… And, I don’t know how you feel about it, but I think that the last paragraph in this piece of writing is the most important thing I have ever written. Whenever I encounter people who are struggling with their mental health, whenever I am struggling myself, I remember these words. I am not giving up, even if people are not seeing that I am fighting.

a final leap

I’m coming home, she said. 
But it was a lie
Words whispered at night into the sky.
The blues tugged at the corners of her being
If only the right one could be there, seeing.
But he never was.
Another human mind asleep
Never thinking or getting in too deep.
And as the wind invited her to join the never ending dance of life,
She let out a wail and jumped into the light.
This time, the words she had spoken had been true,
Hadn’t there been someone, someone new.
Without intent, he saved her from a graceless fall
Together they stood on the ledge of a wall.
I want to go home, she whispered.
Nodding, he took her hand
Together they took a leap into a foreign land.
Faded and jaded from years spent in misery,
These strangers joined each other for the rest of eternity.
Home is not a building made of bricks and stone
It is the person, that feeling we have when we aren’t alone.

my brightest star

Stolen kisses,
lots of them
A thousand misses
Again and again.

Cover my bruised heart
With sinful heat
Allow us a new start
You can take the lead.

The rhythm guides our moves
Undulating, thrusting;
The lovers’ groove
Never everlasting.

A blanket of sweat
Covers you and me
Allow me that;
Mark me with your seed.

Oh how I crave your touch
The blissful release
It doesn’t take too much
You get me there, with ease.

You between my thighs
You bring me peace
Never felt a higher high
Let me come, please.

I feel you inside
No protection at all
My eyes water with pride
As I suffer the final fall.

Some consider us a sin
But you are the best part of me
Completing me from within,
The one who opened my eyes to see.

I give myself to you
Heart, mind and soul
Give me yourself too
And I will fill your holes.

This is your song
You know who you are.
I haven’t known you for very long
But you are my brightest star.

beautiful rain

The clouds gathered above my head,

I shook my hair, refusing to accept that I was mad

And the rain began soaking my naked body

My nose rose in defiance; yes, I was that snotty

Roots grew out of my feet, keeping me steady

One, two, three. I felt it in my bones; I was ready

I wasn’t drowning; I was nurtured and growing

And time and space was slowing (down)

My head fell back, and my arms rose against the gloomy sky

Fuzzy images behind my eyes; suggestive lies

Victorious at last, my skin was washed clean

Memories of who I was and where I’d been

My unquiet mind was reeling from this new emotion

Life passing by in slow motion

A new seed was beginning to grow

Goodbye. Hello.

Superpower

It is a common question: “If you had a superpower, which one would it be?”

I used to say: “I want to be invisible.” But I’ve grown out of this answer. If I were invisible, it would be to snoop around and to listen to other people speak when I am not there. Being as emotional and sensitive as I am, I am not sure I could take it though. What if people weren’t nice behind my back. Or worse, what if they didn’t talk at all?

Next option would be “reading minds.” But here too, I think I’ve grown out of it; partly for the same reasons mentioned above. Add the constant noise, because it is all or nothing. What if I can’t be a selective mind reader? I would go crazy within hours, and I would probably hide somewhere where the voice couldn’t reach me.

I think, my superpower should be teleportation. Being where I want to be and with whom I want to be in the blink of an eye. I would visit my friend in London. I am sure we have a lot to talk too, and I want to know more about her everyday life. I would visit people in New York and Texas, and in Greece too. There are people in Australia I would want to meet in person… But most of all, I would be able to visit my sister in Germany whenever I felt like it without planning the ride there or organising a hotel to stay; just pop in for a coffee and be back home a while later.

I wouldn’t want to fly, or do everything in supersonic speed. I wouldn’t want to shrink or be a giant; I wouldn’t need x-ray vision or whatever else…

I thought about invulnerability and living forever… But again, I have too many arguments against it. I could never find happiness if the people I loved died one by one. And that Queen-song comes to my mind – who wants to live forever?

I am modest, I think.

Did you ever think about superpowers? Which one is yours?

Take me away!

I had this system for getting exactly what I wanted out of people. I needed help. That much was clear. I needed money to pay the bus ride from this forsaken town to go to the big city. Such a cliché, but I had dreams and aspirations.

I looked up and down the street and back at the bus driver, trying to understand his gestures and thinking about how to use my skill for my benefit. I was good at reading people. Amazing even. I lowered the zipper of my parka and climbed the steps of the bus.

“Excuse me, Sir?” My voice was higher than usual and laced with sweetness too. He looked up at me grumbling something that I didn’t catch, but he waited for whatever I had to say. “I really need to take this bus, Sir.” He scratched his forehead, and I could see irritation form on his face. Before he could say something or kick me out, I leaned in closer to him. “The thing is, I got mugged tonight, and my money was stolen and,” I kicked it up a notch by trying to fake tears “Please. I will do anything you ask, just let me take a seat on your bus,” I whispered and waited in anticipation.

To my right, I heard a man chuckle. The man scrutinized the driver and me with a knowing look. I wasn’t above begging now, and the desperation must have shown on my face.

He shook his head and addressed the bus driver: “If you don’t take chances,” said the man in striped pants, “you might as well not be alive.” There was an insulting kind of wisdom in his words and the driver huffed. He shook his head, mumbling about not making him regret this and moved his head in a way that told me to move on and find my seat. I nodded my gratefulness at the man in the striped pants, who shook his head and turned to watch the people outside the window, not sparing me another glance. I hefted my backpack up in its designated place over my head and sat down with a sigh. My great escape from my overbearing home was a success.

Ever since mom had met Herb, life had changed. Mom had been overbearing from the moment I could remember. She had always been nosy and wanted to know everything. I stopped writing my diary because she kept reading it. I hid everything that was revealing about my personality because I didn’t want her to snoop around or know things about me that I didn’t know myself. She kept cleaning my room, changing my sheets, and fixing my clothes when they had a tear here or there. But when Herb moved in, things changed. Everything was different.

I remembered the first evening he spent on the couch as if the house was his. His feet lay on the coffee table, his disgusting toes visible through the hole in his sock. He smelled bad, and I was surprised that there weren’t any flies around him. He scratched his belly, burped, and asked me to go fetch him another beer. Stunned, I had gone to the kitchen, found a beer, uncapped it, and I had walked back to the living room. He grinned at me reaching his hand out for the brown bottle, and I snapped. I didn’t want him there. In my home, with my mom. She deserved better than him. I turned the bottle upside down, and the foamy contents soaked his pants. The growl and the gnarl were fierce, and Herb jumped off the couch. He raised his hand, and I waited for the blow, but it didn’t come. Instead, I saw my mom standing next to the couch with her hands on her hips. “What happened here?” She demanded. I looked at the bottle and thought fast, “I tripped,” I lied. Herb growled again but didn’t argue. “I’m going to change my pants,” he said, and I turned away from my mom, relishing my victory.

I was propelled back to the present when the bus began to move. I wasn’t interested in the passengers and didn’t care to look at those who moved past me. The seat next to me jerked, I did my best to hide my curiosity, but in the end, I turned to look at the stranger whose thigh was touching mine. He looked rough and raw as if he had spent the night on the streets. His lip was split, and his eyes were of an alluringly dark brown. There was a frown on his forehead as he rummaged in a bag on his knees. I kept staring. “Fuck,” he swore and let his head fall back. He must have sensed that I was observing him because he turned to me with a smile. He reached out a hand that was covered in fingerless gloves. “Hi. I’m Henry.” His breath smelled of fresh mint. “Sammy,” I offered, but I didn’t take his hand. I was rude on purpose. I didn’t like strangers, and I hated feeling physically attracted to someone I didn’t know. “Suit yourself,” he chuckled. “I’ve seen you before,” he continued speaking. I looked at him with an annoyed sigh. If I had seen him before, I was sure I would remember him. There was just something about him. Something magnetic. Magical. Rough but attracting. “I saw you standing at the bus shelter in the rain. It was pouring, wasn’t it? Good thing we didn’t get soaked.” I nodded. I still couldn’t remember him, but it was true that I had found shelter from the rain and there had been other people too. It was still pouring outside. I decided to ignore the stranger for the time being. The ride was long, and I needed a little bit of quiet to process these last days. I was exhausted.

I put my head against the window. It was cold against my heated skin. I closed my eyes and drifted off watching landscapes drive by. I am not sure for how long I was zoned out, but I woke up to the sound of Henry sobbing.

It had been a long time since I had seen a man cry and Henry wasn’t just crying, he was bawling. Intrigued I turned to him. He was still clutching his bag with one hand, in the other hand, he held a faded picture. I tried to get a look, but the light didn’t allow me to see anything. “Are you okay?” I asked, and he shook his head, wiping his snotty nose with the back of his hand. Of course, he was not okay, if he had been okay, he wouldn’t be crying. Henry tilted the picture in my direction, clearing his throat as if he wanted to speak but not finding the words. Two young men in uniforms had their arms around each other. They were laughing, I could almost hear the happy sound escape from the picture. It was a happy memory and yet, here sat Henry, crying. “I sometimes can’t help it,” he hiccuped, “I cry. It’s the stress. He was torn apart by a mine. I lost my leg. I wish I had died that day and not him. He was the best man you’ll ever know.” I nodded, not sure what to say. Henry was a stranger after all and I was on this bus to find freedom. I put my head on my hand on watched the blur outside again, ignoring the man next to me. I couldn’t help but wonder if there was such a thing as freedom. We were all prisoners of our memories, trapped in this moving vessel.

45 – obsession

45. That’s the number of messages she had left for him. She wasn’t obsessed. No.

45. That’s the number of pictures she had taken of him. Without his knowledge. She wasn’t obsessed. No, she wasn’t.

45. That’s the number of roses – red with thorns, she had sent for his birthday. Anonymously. She was not obsessed. No, no, she was not.

45. That’s the number of meters she had to stay away from him. Restraining order. But she was not obsessed. No. She was not.

45. That’s the number of women he had dated. None of them was her. She was obsessed. Just a little.

45. That’s the number of times he had sent her away with a sneer. She was obsessed. Just a little too much.

45. That’s the number of birthdays he had celebrated. Until her little not-obsession ended his life.

45. That’s the number of stab wounds on his beautiful yet cold body. She was not obsessed. Maybe just a little.

45. That’s the number which described her relationship to him best. She was obsessed. Too much.

*throwback* cold coffee

I pushed the door open with my foot, startling you. Your eyes were filled with sleep; mine were full of mischief. I came to your room with the intention to wake you up with the smell of coffee, but seeing you like this; naked, hard, embarrassed; it did things to me.

You were a guest in my house — a friend. The polite thing would have been to apologise and leave. But I couldn’t. I was hungry. Starving. And not for food. You looked at your erection, then at me. I licked my lips and tried to find a safe place for that cup of coffee in my hand.

You sat up and reached for the sheets to cover yourself. I shook my head. “Don’t, ” I croaked. You rose an eyebrow, probably intensely aware of the situation too. I kept my eyes on you, avoiding to see myself ungracefully join you on the mattress through the mirror on the wall.

“Hi, ” you said as if you were seeing me for the first time. Your hand was already in my hair, pulling my head; my lips, to yours.

Outside, rain was joining the wind that had been up all night. Inside, we were joining too.

Everything fit. Profoundly. Almost overwhelmingly. The natural flow of things didn’t take us back. It didn’t leave room for doubts or vanities. Every touch meant something. Every time I felt your tongue on my heated skin, it felt as if I was becoming a part of you. Your hands explored my body as if they had never done anything else. The weight of you on my tongue was exactly right, and your taste made me swallow you as often as I could. I was drowning in our lust.

When you finally penetrated me, it only took a moment before the world exploded for me. Shivering, sweating, swearing, I encouraged you to keep moving. But you didn’t. You lay on top of me; your hands were caressing my hair, your eyes were searching my face for something that I couldn’t pretend wasn’t there. A smile appeared on your lips. Proud of yourself and how you had undone me, you kissed me. You were pulsating inside of me, but not moving. Heavenly torture. I begged for more, gyrated my hips underneath you, but you were stubborn. And too close to be consumed by our lust too.

Two micro moves later, you stopped breathing. Your sweat was dripping down on me from the tip of your nose; your eyes were closed. A strangled noise left your lips just before you started to breathe again.

I had seen you. I had felt you. And it left me breathless; and not only because your full weight was on my body now. The beauty and surprise of us in this situation was overwhelming. You kissed my temple and rolled off me with a loud groan and a chuckle. Your arm covered your eyes, and your hand was running up and down your stomach. The most handsome man who I had ever been with.

I put my head on your chest, your heartbeat sang a song for me, while I retraced the pattern of the tattoos on your skin. Your eyes were filled with sleep again. I covered us with the crumbled sheet, making sure that the wet spot we left was covering me and not you.

In a while, I would worry about the meaning of it all, but right then I decided to go with the flow and let it happen.

Only the coffee had grown cold.