One Evening

I remember I had just turned seventy, I got a mail from my son and his bitch of a wife, congratulating me on making it on to another year of misery, apologising that they can't visit for a reason they never mentioned, but promising that they will as soon as things settle down for them; I imagined his wife repulsed by the idea of visiting an old retired man in his small apartment, that smelled of pills, soup and death. My son included  a sum of money, even after warning him never to do that again, he's always been a worrier; just like his late mother, no matter how many times I used to tell her I'm fine, she would still worry, he's just like her, I always hated that quality in them. I took the money and placed it in an envelope, writing in a small piece of paper:

'Dear son, I will break your legs, 

if you ever send me money again. 

love, Dad' 

I wrote the address and put on my coat to go down to the mailbox at the beginning of the street.

The apartment opposite mine was crowded with boxes, the door was left open, and I could see even more boxes inside, I wondered about the new neighbour who will take residence, I sure hope they're not as annoying as the three couples who lived here before, I hated having to share the floor with anyone else, so this was already starting to become a problem, as I've put on my hat to go down the stairs, I saw her dragging two bags up the stairs, she looked up when she saw me standing there, smiled at me and said underneath her tired breaths, "I'm so sorry these are the final ones, I promise" I was startled by the sudden charm, no one around this area even knows what the word 'sorry' means, I shook my head immediately, and went down a couple of steps to carry her bag for her instead of standing there like a dumb doormat, "It's okay" I mumbled as I felt forced not to be an ass, carried her bag to her new apartment, then turned around to leave but not before saying: "Welcome to the shittiest harbour in town" I heard her chuckle behind my back, responding quietly: "Thank you"

**Here is my account of a story that was cut short, 

by what some would consider a tragedy, 

and why it was quite the opposite for me** 

It was on one of those lazy lonely afternoons, where you're laying around with nothing to do, reading yesterday's paper because you couldn't bother fetching the latest news, that I heard my doorbell ringing once, the noise almost made me spill my cold coffee, I thought it was the landlord, being an asshole as usual, reminding me of my rent three weeks in advance; just because I'm an old fart doesn't mean I forget the basic transaction that occur every month, the way the world perceives the elderly is the reason why this country is in shit-state.. what a bunch of pretentious idiots.

I got up from my chair, dragging frustration as a tail, till I opened the door and saw her standing there, she was a young woman, that was the first thought that popped to my brain, I must've not noticed her features when she was pulling the boxes to her apartment the other day; she didn't look a day above twenty-three, very beautiful indeed, not in the conventional sense; she was dressed in what looked like her brother's hand-me-down shirt, a worn-out jeans, her hair was cut short, and her face was make-up free, regardless of these long-established forms of defying the aesthetics, there was a certain beauty about her, one that no man can possibly deny; the characteristic kind that's difficult to define, and impossible to forget.

"Hello?" She smiled at me with patient eyes, clearly not disturbed by the old man staring at her, and examining her face like a dignified creep; I wondered how often she had to face that till it stopped becoming a problem for her, perhaps it still is, I shouldn't prolong this anymore, for my brain would start drifting to a place unknown.

"Hello there" I replied "I'm sorry to bother you" She proceeded, oh boy she sure was nice, everything bothers me and never once did it apologise, "The phone in my apartment isn't working, I went to the landlord downstairs, he didn't answer, he must've gone someplace" I highly doubt that, he was probably asleep or maybe watching road-rage episodes with a can of tuna stuffed to his face, "Would it be okay if I make a quick phone call from yours? I won't take long" her demeanour was as apologetic as her tone; and there was something about it, I can't really grasp it, I wondered if she was actually apologising for me or mainly herself for needing someone, I couldn't quite grasp it.

"Sure, go ahead" I gestured to her, and stepped out of the way, pointing towards the telephone in the living room, I watched her dial the number, talking discreetly, after she was done, she came back and whispered "Thank you very much" and was on her way back to her apartment. I watched her as she walked across the corridor, to her apartment, until she locked the door behind her, there was something indefinite of the aura that seemed to surround her; mesmeric in a way, I haven't experienced before, it pulled you in, all so effortlessly, and yet not without a warning.

I've encountered her a few times after that day, she was always polite in a hurried way, like she couldn't wait to be on her own again, although one time I remember, meeting her on the lobby downstairs, she couldn't hide the enthusiasm in her tone, as she told me how happy she was that the downstairs neighbour's cat was finally back home, after writing flyers and hanging them all over the block, for almost a week, there was no news until a young boy, brought the lost cat home, I saw how helping others filled her with joy, and we talked for almost an hour there, she told me about her childhood's pet, and how she experienced grief for the first time as a seven year old, when it died and she couldn't spell a magic trick to bring it to life, I wanted her to talk more, but she was quick to leave as usual, petting the cat and congratulating its owner for its safe return, the old woman holding the cat, gratefully chanting thank you's, as she left to her flat.

There was one evening that stuck the most, the evening I remember most, it was probably a few days leading up to the incident, I remember she was at my door, and asked me if it would be alright if she could spend some time with me, 'there's something very destructive about being left alone in this hour';  her exact words as I remember, I invited her in and offered her some water, we sat opposite each other in the living room, she was breathing quite heavily, and it seemed like she'd been crying, there was something broken in her, something completely devastated, it was very clear to see.

"I'm sorry if I interrupted your evening" she spoke quietly while sipping from the cup, "You didn't, is everything alright?" I was obviously too concerned, too quickly, she put her cup down and shook her head, I was looking at her, trying to sense what must be going on inside of her mind, it was like a totally different girl was sitting in front of me, her intoxicating smile was gone, and her eyes was soaked with sadness; something a little more than that.

"You can tell me" I said reassuring, not entirely certain myself if I can be of any help, but I felt that she had a lot to say, and only needed someone to hear her.

"I'm not sure how much more I can push through, I thought a new beginning should suffice, a new town, a new job, a new apartment, a new me. I honestly thought I could cheat it, that I could work my way around it, that I could forget its waiting for me, until things starts to go fine for me, it appears, to remind me; that I can't escape it, I've tried many times before. People kept telling me to give it some time, to be patient, I did that, and nothing seems different, I've put in a lot of effort into building myself over and over again, but I always crumbled down, to pick myself up and try again, every time. I can't anymore"

"Is there a significance to this date, perhaps?" I spoke after a few moments, she looked at me, with eyes that begged to speak of unspoken truths, and I knew then I couldn't be of help to her, she was lost, so lost in a place beyond retain.

"I was raped on this date" she laughed and tears rolled down her cheeks at the same moment, "I can't believe I could just say it like that, I was never able to tell anyone before. It seems like it happened a long time ago, but I can still remember that night, I remember his face, his words, how he held me and how he left me to die after he took what he wanted. I wished he would kill me, I even begged him to, but he laughed and said 'how will u remember this night if you died, where's the fun in that?' I tried to kill myself that night when I managed to find my way home, but my family were too soon to catch up with me, they send me to therapists, and made me take all kinds of pills, I slept all day and night, I've spent a year of my life asleep. That was until I decided to move, because I thought that the place was the problem, that I could never heal if I kept walking down the street of where it happened"

"I was born with a desperate need for love, just like everyone else, but mine was different, it yearned for the wrong kind of love; the one that only caused me pain and suffering. I was abused as a child, by four different men, in seven different occasions, I never talked about that either, because I thought it was normal, I thought it never effected me, that was until I took a look at the men I've been involved with, and how they've treated me, I was repeating a vicious cycle, and there was no way to break it.

I pray for a higher entity everyday to grant me relief, with what little faith I can find within me, and yet nothing seems to change. I believe that life wasn't made for everyone, I know that sounds stupid, but I didn't come to this conclusion by giving up, I didn't give up, not easily anyway, I've tried more times than I can mention to fight this, but I'm the same child I was years ago. I'm as scared and insecure as I was back then,  I haven't changed at all. I only fooled myself into believing that I did"

I was quiet for what seemed like a long period of time, she was staring at me with dried eyes, I wasn't sure if she wished I would say something, to relieve her suffering, that took control over her life, what could I possibly say? Everything would come out sounding like a tired motto at this moment, as if she was reading my mind, she said:

"Please don't bother yourself with this, this was so selfish of me. I'm going to excuse myself, thank you for listening to me. I know my words are safe in your palms"

And with that she left, before I could stop her, went back to her apartment and that was the last I've ever heard from her. five days after, the landlord went to collect the rent, and that was when he discovered her, dead in her bed, she overdosed on some medication, she didn't leave any note behind her, nobody came to collect her body, so I said to burry her in the town's graveyard, since it was the place where she spent her final days.

I often find my mind wandering to that evening, if I could've said anything to try and change her mind, if it would've even made any difference, I think she held on for as long as it took, to bare her secrets with someone else, she desired for someone to learn her story, and she settled for that someone being me. life was a burden for her, she gave up on finding the happiness in it, along time ago, she went through more than anyone should go through during a stage of their lives, and that left her lost and confused, unable to trust that good things can happen to people like her. I do believe she found the relief she sought for so many years; in that evening, it might've not been what she expected, but somehow it was enough for her.

I do dream about her every now and again, she became the mystery to keep me company during the remaining days.

I am now seventy-one years old, just received a letter from my son apologising for not visiting, and a sum of money attached with the letter, I took a paper, wrote him to thank him, and included the money back, stepped outside of my apartment to send it, when I took a look at the apartment opposite mine, the corridor was empty, life seemed to lose its taste once again, and I never wished to share the floor with anyone as I did today. 

Until next time

My hands are frozen over the keyboard, this seems to happen so often lately, because I'm not so sure if I have something worth saying, or if something actually is worth saying at all. I wish I can have coffee right now, but because its 3AM and I woke up mid sleep, to the sound of rain outside my window, I don't think its a good idea to drink and reflect upon everything silently; even though its the most I want to do right this moment, but I have things to do tomorrow, places to be, I have to be a different person when the sun hits the sky, and follow the cycle of living beings. So no to coffee, I'll do without.

I guess I want to bare myself in this one, writing had always been the only way for me to express how I feel, and yet not quite that. If you read the pieces I write here, everything paints a story because in a way they are, I borrow pain from other people, from a friend's hopeless cries, to a film I've watched, to a stranger's sad looking face, it's all borrowed, it never really belonged to me. I'm a collection of stories; half of them aren't even real, the other half is rented for a bit of indulgence for purely selfish reasons.

I treat people in my life like characters, I don't want to use the past tense here, because I'm not so sure if I'm out of that habit yet, everyone I've ever befriended, everyone I've ever went out with, everyone I've ever gave my time to, was serving a purpose for a grand picture, I see everyone standing next to an open door, any minute they will leave, if its something I'll say to make them leave faster, if it's a decision they'll make because they've finally realised that they can't get as close to me as they wish to, whatever the reason might be, the door is always there, and its always open.

I don't hurt people, I don't think I intentionally do, of course how original is that, we all just kind-of hurt each other without really knowing, don't we? But I don't think I do, I push them away, more times than I can remember, I've pushed them away, not by saying anything, no, by disappearing into thin air, I can one day be here, the next I don't. Just like that. People empty me, and I always needed to get away to refill.

I don't cry anymore, I don't remember the last time I did, I used to think that I cry over things that happen to me, but looking back, I realise how I cry over things that don't, but somehow managed to convince myself that they have something to do with me. I thought I cried over the boy who broke my heart, but I realised how my heart was doing just fine, and I only wanted to feel the pain of him not being around, boys never effected me in the way I read about in books, or heard in the stories of other folk, and I'm not so certain of that completely because perhaps they did once before, but my soul was still empty, I crave more than attention, love or lust, I desire something I know I can't obtain and I'm not even sure what it is. If I cry again, it would be over this.

I want my mother to be happy, she sacrificed so much, and got very little in return, I won't get into it here, because there are things that are not meant to be shared, even in a public blog like this one. I want her to be happy because in a way, I know how impossible it is for her to be, sadness is now correlated with whatever little joy she might feel, knowing that she's broken over things I can not mend or replace, makes me angry. I pray she finds happiness whatever it may be, if its in my brother graduating university, if its in my marriage, if its in the coming of her newly grandchild, all of which are in the future. I hope the future has happiness in store for her, I keep praying it will cross her.

Sometimes we find ourselves buzzing for things, a lot of people find their fix, and know where to go to find it, I'm not like these people. I have to step outside of myself to experience something, I never really experience, perhaps I only watch other people watching me experiencing it. I don't think I know myself well, or maybe I know myself too well that I've figured out the perfect way not to be, a void is always here, I can fill it up, with religion, with companionship, with music, with books and so on, but sooner -always so- than later, I find it empty again. I think I'm one of the people who can never be satisfied, and I worry as I say that, because I truly believe that life is wonderful, evermore so, and I can't seem to enjoy it in the way I want to. I think too much, I know, one of the habits I can't seem to let go.

I'm a happy person, I find that I'm maybe more content than happy, more content in the comfort of slow  pace than much else, and aren't the happiest people always the saddest ones? Perhaps I don't know myself well enough, I could never be one state of mind at one given moment, that confuses me, it terrifies me that I can't be. I read here and there about human characters, I wanted to major in psychology in college but a series of unfortunate events hindered that from happening, I've always been fascinated with the abnormal, the human mind and why it does what it does, the personalities of one person and how contradicting a person's words and actions can be. I like to observe more than I like to talk. Sometimes I talk for hours without ever shutting up because I can't wait to share my observations with someone. Other times I just like to sit in silence with someone else and just look at each other, sip a bit of coffee, sigh more than we breathe and hide smiles at the corners of our lips. This is comfort to me.

I've been hurt before, by people's words more than their actions, I don't think it has to do with me being misunderstood, cause I never really tried to make myself understood anyway, it has to do with people's perceptions of me, their assumptions that suffocate me, I don't waste my time on someone who would like to assume things about me rather than ask me themselves. I don't think there's something I hate more than when people think for me. I have a mind of my own. Try and climb it. Chances are you'll find more than a few obstacles and that you'll leave once that's the case, but hey, better than you thinking for me.

Decisions were always made for me, and I kind-of just went along with them, I've talked about a major up there, and the mere reason why I didn't pursue it, is because I didn't believe in myself or my dreams enough to do it. I was shaking and people saw that as a sign of uncertainty and decided for me what I should do. I'm talking in general here because that somehow applies to more aspects of my life than just my education. I've had this way of trusting people to know what's best for me, because I always doubted myself, I always felt like I was inexperienced, a dreamer, an escapist who couldn't quite get the hang of reality, and so I allowed other people to dictate their choices on me. Looking back I realise how little say I had, and perhaps I would say I regret it, if I believed in regrets.

I love myself and I love life, but I know how tiring it is to live amongst it, how difficult it is to be myself with others. Perhaps I'm writing this for selfish reasons, perhaps I'm craving; so desperately to be understood by the eyes of someone else, so that I know I'm not crazy or depressed, so I know that the passion in me isn't actually drying, so I can mouth these very thoughts I'm having instead of writing them. I talk to the Universe (myself, cause I'm a part of it) and ask it to lead me to the road that'll fit me, even with bumps on the way, I don't mind cutting my knees, to get to where I want to be, to where I belong.

I like to look at pictures of filtered flowers and old youth, quotes of writers that I pride myself in saying that I understand what they went through to make them write such things, even though I know I couldn't possibly do. Pictures of people caught unaware, pictures of lovely meals, and cups of hot and cold coffee. I find bliss in the stillness of these shots, like the person who photographs them captured a moment clothed in serenity, so perfectly. I wish my own life was like that, a series of still photographs, that I can just recall and bring back the feeling with it. I'm nostalgic for a past that's not even mine.

Talking about the past, is probably something I saw coming. I don't like to recall my own, I've blocked many years and then a few, more times than I'd like to admit, I feel it creeping behind my back, slowly brushing my shoulders and then poking me once, whispering: have you forgotten about me? The past really doesn't define you, only you do. I know that very well, no one wants to be defined by tragedies and misfortunes, I know I don't, I think I struggle with it, cause I still hope it wasn't what it was, I think I can't accept it because I ignore it every time I'm given the chance to indulge in it. I can't come out of the other side of it, because I'm stuck in the middle. I don't think there's such a thing as closure. I don't know if I ever saw one, but anyway, life has a way of moving on, and I pretend to do the same.

The sea has a way of being calm and unobstructed, when there's no waves or storms forcefully steering it up, sometimes it's hostile and can't be still, but in both cases its always yearning, always yearning for something, I think I'm a lot like that, always yearning for which I can not have. I pray the next time I find peace in my heart, the feeling would last a lifetime. I pray the next arms I find myself falling into, wouldn't be loneliness pushing me to. I pray the next time my heart is raging and my soul is aching, my eyes would tell the truth, and my mind would spill it. I pray the next time I pray, I find God and ask forgiveness for my unexplainable ways, I pray the next time I find love, it find me untainted by desires that always kept it away, I pray all of which I seek is seeking me, so the next time I find myself here, I'm comforted in ease. 

Your Song

Be here for me, I could not bring myself to say it when you were around, but I'm saying it now. Be here for me. I miss you and perhaps that should be enough, I should perhaps stop writing now, but I can't. I've numbed myself for many weeks now, I don't remember how many, the days dragged on with a slow blur to them, I threw myself at work, at people's problems, at books and cooking, all to distract myself from thinking of you, and I've ran my fuel empty , I'm empty again. I hate this. I hate it. I was doing fine until I went through your box of memories, and read the silly little poem you wrote for me, the first ever in a line of chain we've exchanged over coffee dates and tired-out movie scenes.

I can't breathe without inhaling a thought of you deeper, do you know what that's like? My lungs are burning, and my heart is suffocating in between the fire. I don't want my secrets back. I gave them to you, you were the one person who meant the world to me, you were everything to me, but you left me.

You woke up one day and didn't love me anymore. My heart was too heavy for you to carry, it sickened your soul, my pain burdened you and my sadness drowned you. You said you were leaving, and I cried with you standing there speechless, I asked you not to leave, I begged you, I promised you I would change, promising to be a colourful disposition like the girls on TV but you said don't, you said it wouldn't change anything, you were leaving anyway, I held on to you like a last hope, my last chance at happiness but you shuddered me off and said stop, then you told me dwelling on it will only make it worse, and that we've had our run but its time we stopped, and just like that you were gone.

Your ghost haunted me, the air in my apartment carried your scent, my body forgot how to get out of bed, for days I laid there, shivering to the pain that showered me, I cried until my pillow spelled you out, I laid on your side of the bed and cursed myself for it, it was cold and lifeless, just like the furnitures and the walls, like my heart that ached to the fist smouldering it, never wanting to die because you might come back, you might change your mind, you might apologise and blame your doubts, I gave you everything and somehow it wasn't enough. Like a falling star you chased me, and I know now that you never caught me.

Your friends became strangers, and the places we loved became forbidden, like an entire chapter of my life was shredding, page by page, and I didn't have the strength to burn it all together, it left me sore and bitter, I forgot how to hurt, how to feel pain, I've struck my chest to tell me something but it was quiet, the stillness was choking me, and yet my heart was beating, with the stilling pulses that were a slow death to me.

I hate you. I wish I knew how to believe that lie, I wish I knew how to resent you without longing for your return, you brought the heavens down to earth for me, you warmed me with an understanding like never before, you kissed each and every one of my scars and promised there will be no more, you made me crave you with a desire that nearly killed me, and then you saved me, and taught me how love was made, and how you desired me just the same, you tasted the rain I keep hidden inside my soul, then covered me when I got cold.

Perhaps we've fallen hard into something that we've mistaken for love, perhaps we've dived too deep into the bottom, until you couldn't breathe anymore, perhaps I was just another curiosity unfolding, perhaps there was another one calling.. I don't know, and I don't think I'll ever know. Now all I wish for is silencing your song that follows me everywhere I go.