There is a certain calm in knowing that you are all alone in this world, that in all equations and rations, you are all you've got, No one to bother, no one to wonder, No one to worry...like a drifting ghost, everywhere is home yet nowhere is truly home, to be your own compass and anchor, but eventually you will find that it is a disaster waiting , the kind of abomination that God shouldn't bestow on anyone, for whom does this disaster belong? Is it for me or for the world?
Silence is considered a lonely companion, but they don't know that silence just means all the voices are inside your head, never ending, long-suffering, a constant wish, longing, yearning, Hope- to turn it all off.
To most people, I give off a gloomy, hateful expression, my words match up too, my manner of speaking, is just enough to vex yet rational enough to pass. Despite the facade, the carefully curated front of the drifting, fierce unfeeling person I claim to be, the trembling never ceases, the raw anger and pain that threatens to unravel me whole is the only constant I can trust in, it never goes away, in fact I have come to cherish it as I would a dear friend. The unquenchable, tough front....is my own self-mockery in display, and what a wonderful job I have done.
But drifting ghosts don't have nightmares
They don't wake up screaming, sweaty, and trembling. They certainly don't.
Like everything and everyone else, I had a beginning too, I was conceived and birthed, I was named and when my mother looked at me, there was love in her eyes and warmth in her heart. At least, I like to think so, but that was back then, way, way back, not that long ago, yet it feels like a century gone by.
My MOTHER
I can't remember what color her eyes were, on second thought, I don't want to remember, let it all be a distant memory, just like everything from that time. I am a little upset....of all the lives possible to live, I could have been a butterfly, or even a horse, or perhaps a tiger, yet this is what I get, NOTHINGNESS OF MUCHNESS.
"Giana" Robin called in his raspy, lung damaged voice.
"Yes ...."I answer as I walk towards the counter of the cafe that has achieved a bit of permanence in my life. I watched as these walls were repainted and I know the position of every furniture, and what robin keeps in the box in the storage room, and what he keeps underneath the floorboard in his office.
"Table 6, get him a cup of milk, and ask if he wants anything else, Sri is out getting the new orders, so see to that will you" Robin says in between coughs as he continues to fill out some paperwork.
"On it"
I walk to the dispenser with a clean mug , as I press the button... I hear a shrill sound,
' Of course it's empty'
Sri never does his job right, hopefully we haven't run out of milk in the storage room. Thankfully, We haven't, I replace the milk keg and prep the order.
I set the glass and milk on Table 6 and notice the young man drawing or scribbling in his notebook, clean shaven, but with a gigantic scar on the side of his chin, he was lean, almost the sickly kind, a scar could never have been more out of place on a person, it was like having a baby with a full on bridal make-up, It makes you wonder all about his life, but the truth — all you want to really know is how he got that scar.
"If you're done staring, can I have a straw"
he said in a thick British accent. Honestly the ginger hair and cheek freckles was a huge hint
"Of course" I walk up to the counter, picked a straw, and hand it over to him.
'Who sips milk with a straw?'
Robin is done with paperwork, he is swiping the counter clean, and there isn't a speck of dirt, but he won't stop, probably needs to smoke...I know he has been stressed lately, this period is just as hard for him as it is for me, but we don't discuss it, we never really do. And it's good that way, all of this carefully built dependency is simply a trade, a brush, when two lines criss cross....and it will be over soon, just a little while longer and we continue on our own paths.
'Robin, I need a day off tomorrow" I know what he would try to do, but that won't stop me, it never has, not in all this years.
"Tomorrow is delicate, it's a weekend and you know how weekends get, can you take a day off some other time?"
"No I can't, you and Sri will be here, nothing you can't handle with each other's support" I say trying to sound the least sarcastic as possible.
No offense, but we'have been running a deficit for a while now, the customer count keeps dropping every day. He knows I know that, yet he still serves the bullcrap about weekends being busy.
" Sri can't handle all of that by himself, and Paulina can't come in at this time, you know this "
"We have an agreement Robin, I won't be at work tomorrow, and you can help Sri handle things" He doesn't argue and I know he won't, my mind's made up and he knows it.
We face off on each other for a while, before I walk away, I feel the weight of his eyes on my back as I walk to clear the Straw guys table. Straw guy stands up to leave, gathering his stationery. I see his sketch and he's got talent, it's eye catching and sad.
A grown man's body, the attached head is that of a child, and he drags on a bag too heavy to carry, the weirdest part of all this, is that the facial expression is cheerful and carefree but the body language shows an overwhelmed, tired structure. A perfect contrast, a story both sad and pitiful, it might even be deemed pathetic.
"You can have it, or trash it" The straw guy says before turning to leave.
"What do you mean?"
He pauses " it's yours if you want it, otherwise you can trash it"
"What do you mean" I say pointing at the sketch.
" I don't know" he tells me and walks out.
I trash it.
*******************************************
I spend a lot of time in my head, not because it's safe but because I own and make all the rules, it's the one place where I am both the hero and the villan, the boss and slave, attacker and victim, it's the raw taste of power.
And the only place where I can find you
... in my head, in my heart, it's the only place where you still roam freely, where your laughter still echoes, and your tears ....but laughter, yes....I can still hear it, something so alarming, because of how unusual it was, you would laugh so boldly, so freely anyone would have to turn around to find out what could provoke such a heartfelt sound in this world of chaos and pretense.
They say Grief is an infinite amount of love with no where to go, but it's also 'if only' , it's longing, it's eternal entrapment, it's to remain forever engraved in someone's thought and head, and for some of us.... it's regret, and anger and a knife that is forever embedded in skin, twisting and wiggling deep, with no relief or cure.
But I understand, that this is what it would take, for me to see the world as it is, to understand my utter foolishness, to acknowledge truly that unicorns do not exist and that my attempt to play any game asides the one already in play— prey and predator — is a fool's errand, extremely laughable, pathetic and sorrowful. They won't bleed for you, they won't make excuses for you, even if you cut a piece of your flesh everyday, to appease their hunger, it won't be enough, never.....even after there is nothing left of you, and your bones....it still won't be enough.
Because there is only prey and predator, anything else, any other player is simply a sad excuse for a prop.
For you, I hope nothing more, only that you will find calm, a place only for luminaries like yourself, where pain is non existent , where peace abounds, where sorrows are forgotten, and where there are speakers to echo your laughter all through the place.
I unfortunately will not meet you there, hell is empty, and all the devil's are here, I must shed the veil of pretense, I must belong, the creator matched the wrong heart to such fate, and for long I have paid the price for my heart.....
But hearts can be changed
I place a dandelion on the gravestone and walk away.