nothing is more real than nothing

Although words drain almost all life from within us … there subsists in us a silent, elusive, ungraspable part. In the region of words, of discourse, this part is neglected

Bataille, Inner Experience

I am not sure where this takes us. More than once, I have been asked to start. But I have, rest assured, I have. Always, a proper start. You need a decent beginning. If you ignore these rules, if you spit on the need for coherence, they will turn their back. And I alone will remain. Me with this I. Which would not be all that alone, I assume. But of course, without a witness, this would mean nothing. Just this morning, to ensure a proper start, I let my stomach rest. I let my stomach rest, as I always do when I fill it. I pull up a stool, I extend my belly as far as it lets me. I position it on this stool which rests between my legs. Nice and easy, I park this paunch of mine. Sometimes, but only if I have a particularly good day, sometimes I put a pillow below. Soft and pretty, I let it rest there. Then I extend that arm, the favoured one, hanging from the right side of my torso. I extend it until I reach a piece of wood with a cloth attached to it. I grab that wood and put it on my ripe, resting belly. Only now, after I have sandwiched my belly between that decrepit stool and the wood, only now I start. Start with my breakfast. This little wood is lovely. It sports one of these disgusting checked cloths that the decent folk fancy. A little roughed up, it is nailed to this splintering wood. Occasionally, when my breakfast is too generous, I have to extract some shards from my flesh. One day, I will give it a good polish. I will polish it until it is nice and smooth. That day, I will think about starting without a shirt. I will enjoy the cold warmth of polished wood on this bulging mountain of mine. But until then, rough wood will do too.

I use it as a table. To be exact, I use my belly as a table, but I have it steadier if the wood rests on the belly that rests on the stool. Always be exact. That is what I am told. Always use the simple, the immediate. Always use the easy prose. At least when you start. Once you lured them in, they don’t tend to leave. Or they do. But then they have the book already. So, why would you care? Or I? For it is me that we are talking about, not you. But maybe because we talk about me, we talk about you too? But wait, I am getting ahead of myself. I was talking about my breakfast. And it is important that we get this right. For if we don’t get this right, we mess up the start. And that’s precisely what we don’t want to risk. Understand? Thus, I will outline. Outline, in minuscule detail, how we might want to start. How to set out on this prophecy. How we ensure a vision, of some sort. But that would refer to a different day, a different story. Now, we tend to the humble. We establish how it is, that all these poor creatures, the creatures from the crevices, how it is that they seem to be informed by something which is beyond any grasp. How it is that they understand without understanding. But to do so, some introduction must be established. Even if there is none. To make up for this absence, I shall unravel how my days begin. How they embark. How I strengthen myself to withstand the daily eccentricities. How I furnish a humble life.

Once a fortnight, I get a big lump of bread. I get the largest one they have. I use a pushcart to drag it home. Yes, I drag the pushcart. I know, it is supposed to be pushed. But I don’t fancy pushing things around; thus, I bend my arms backwards, as far as they will go, I bend them back. I grab the handles and I drag the pushcart home. I drag the pushcart home, in which you find provision for fourteen days. A big old loaf of bread. As big as they used to be, when they still had to feed a hungry lot. Next to it rattle some tools that I always drag around. A shovel with a broken handle and a mean hammer. When I was younger, I thought I would make use of the shovel. I thought I should unearth things, expose them. But when I grew fatter, I realized that I prefer the cover-up. Thus, the shovel is without use. It is not suitable to cover things, to coat them with dust and dirt. Once, I tried to hide a big mess. What a large fuzz it was that I created. A mess so big it would have merited a proper response. But I chose to hide it. In the process, the shovel broke. The handle was lost, and now I only drag along the chipped metal. Maybe to remember. But if I think about it more closely, I should not be the one to remember, it is this shovel that shall witness how I changed. Thus, I need to keep it, for one day I will demonstrate the emptiness of unperturbed vision. Yet, I am getting overwhelmed again. Let’s retrace the steps.

I drag these tools and they are precious. They are precious because they are a part of me. This hammer of mine. It is one of the mean ones. The ones they use to pull nails. When I stare at the construction which happens all over town, I often see them used. One smacks a nail in and a few days later another worker, who knows better, extracts the nail with the same kind of instrument. A third worker, being molested by their inefficiency, sports a mighty swing, and sinks the hammer into the wall. Other workers, with other tools, have to clean up after their exchange. It is their discourse that inspires me. Hammer in, pull out, smack down. What a feisty tool that is, this hammer of mine. Ever since I have seen its intricate potential, I drag one around. I feel its presence, but I have never used it. One day, I might. One day, when I am convinced that my words need some reinforcement. I will use it. Or maybe my words need to be removed. Or perhaps all of this will need to be torn down. In any case, I will use it. And until then, it rests in this pushcart of mine. Or rather, it jumps on our trip. Jumps in anticipation. For it and I, I and it, we belong together.

Always I use the same route, and always it is different. Maybe it is different because I only leave my home every fourteen days. Only to obtain the loaf, as I disclosed already. Or perhaps it is different because it changes constantly, even while I am walking. Or maybe it is different because I am unable to discriminate. And thus, everything is different, always. If I was as clever as you, I would now be intimidated. Surely, you would tell me that the absence of the same in a mighty mess of difference, just amounts to the same. I would think, and I would have no suitable answer. As I never do. I would think, and I would say, for me, you know, for this me which maybe is an I, everything is different. Never have I encountered the same. Never have I tried to search for it. But apparently, I should. Maybe I would if I wanted to be as clever as you. All lost in these thoughts, I walk along this route that I don’t recognize.

You must understand it is a real effort that I undertake. Dragging this hefty loaf of bread, I search. I try to find the home that I don’t have. Eventually, I find something, but it is not a home, and surely, it is not mine. But it should not matter, and thus I ascend the stairs. I drag this pushcart of mine, and up the stairs, I drag it. Once I reach the upper end of a step, I need to drag even stronger, I drag stronger, and the cold metal of the pushcart wedges a little further. I drag stronger, and it pushes into my fat and my fat rejects it. Ejects it, as I should say. If I had an understanding of time, I would tell you that this probably takes an hour. It takes an hour to climb the stairs. That should be it, because it takes long, I assure you, it takes long. After this time that I don’t measure, only approximate, I eventually make it back. I enter the door and I don’t recognize much. But it does not matter, as I will have an undisturbed fortnight to make myself at home. To settle down, feel comfortable. It will be a fortnight before I set out again. Set out to acquire my bread.

Finally, back in a room, that is not my room, I break the loaf into pieces. I part the bread. Part it into fourteen pieces. I use a scale to be exact. Always, I am told that I am too imprecise, and thus I use a scale to be a little more precise. I measure until I am entirely sure that each chunk is roughly the same size. What I don’t like about this parting is that it creates a mighty commotion. It forces me to discriminate. At first, I would not part at all. I would have this hefty loaf resting in my pushcart. I would stare at it. I would continue staring until my hunger overwhelms me. Until my hunger, this mean fool, would overwhelm me. Would punch me in my paunch until it feels all empty. Swollen from emptiness, like these words of mine, I would try to soothe it. I would try to soothe that belly, but it just won’t budge. I would sing a little song to calm it. I would sing that song, but it would not calm. Not the song, not the I, not the belly. Nothing would be calm, and everything would start to rumble. Everything would start to shake, shake from the emptiness of restraint. I would endeavour to tame myself. Try to discipline myself with logic. Oh, logic, I would say. Oh, logic, you scoundrel. You never served me well. You never served me well and still, I obey. Still, I obey because I think if I do, people will listen. I don’t know which people, and probably I don’t know what it is that they shall listen to. But I still obey. Maybe they should listen to my song. Maybe they should listen to the growl of my stomach. And maybe we would all learn. Would all learn that my belly isn't concerned with your logic. It is all empty, but for me, it is all full. It is so full. Filled with all that sorrow. Filled with all that emptiness so that it cannot help but complain. It cannot help but rumble so hard that I become all shaky. So shaky that no song will soothe it. That no logic will tame it. I start to rattle, filled with anticipation as I am. Maybe that’s why my belly is so restless. Maybe it just can’t digest all that anticipation it is fed. Maybe I am allergic to these things. Now I am all rattling and I cannot restrain myself, I throw myself onto that big old loaf. I don’t know where to start. All round as it is, I don't know where to start. Which corner to ingest. Having given up. All succumbing to this growling hunger, I devour. I wedge my jaws around the loaf until I don’t feel them anymore. I take a bite and two thirds are gone. All that commotion and two thirds are gone.

This is how I did it. For as long as I remember, this is how I did it. My fortnight-provision would be diminished by the first night. Diminished by two thirds, I would now have thirteen days to calm all that unrest with a single third. As unrestrained as I am, by the second night, nothing would be left, and I would grow in anticipation. Twelve nights, I would nourish my waning fat with anticipation. This has to stop, I thought. And as little as I like it, I had to start rationing. I had to discriminate. Start thinking economically. That is what I did. That is what I started. And thus, I would part the bread. Part the bread into fourteen pieces. All this parting is not ideal. But it helps me to restrain myself. To be a little more efficient, a little more logical, a little more economical. A little more like you. All this parting helped me to calm my hunger. Nowadays, I dine like it is supposed to be done. Like I see it through the tainted windows of the pretty restaurants. I have my table; I have the parted bread. I have my proper start. We can all benefit. You get your coherent narration and I get my meal. I get my meal that is not quite enough and not quite too little. Barely enough to keep moving. To keep me thinking. To keep you reading and to keep me writing. There persist a few problems. But all in all, things have improved. No longer am I solely fed on anticipation.  

According to this new order, this new order that we established together, I now have fourteen pieces. Every fortnight, fourteen pieces do feed me. The first piece is always sumptuous. But the last, the last one always shrinks. Within fourteen days, it shrinks into this fat brick of bread. On the fourteenth day, my stool, my belly, the wood, and I would sit there. Sit there, as we always do, to ensure a proper start. I would sit there and start sucking on that bread. The bread, as tough as it is, just won’t yield. My mouth extends around its smoothest edge. I pluck that bread in, and I let it sit there. Sit there as the wood sits on the belly that sits on the stool. The bread, in turn, sits in my moist mouth. After twenty-three to twenty-four minutes, the lubrication of my mouth has left it. And thus, I sit. Sit all dry. Sit while the bread sits in my mouth and while all the rest sits according to the order, we established. After another twelve minutes or so, my mouth starts to numb around the lower left edge of my lips. With a lot of honest and dedicated effort, I try to compensate for this absence of sensation. The right side of my mouth extends further, trying to prevent the brick from falling. With a strained face, I eye the clock. There is a clock on this wall which I face. I stare at it. If only I could reach those two minutes more. But it is hard to tell when they have passed, as that clock runs without batteries. That is, it does not run at all. Where should it run anyway? No need to hurry, in here. In here, there is no need to hurry. There is no need to run for that clock, and thus I don’t know when these minutes have passed. Two more, I think. Because two is more than one. If I reached more than one minute, the little moisture that remains would gather. The little moisture in my mouth would engage in a collaborative effort. Just a little more, a tiny little, and the bread would yield. Lodged in my mouth, the bread would yield, and I could suck on it a little. I could tingle it a little, with my tongue. And the fourteenth piece of bread, this large shrunken piece, would nourish me. But I fail. I am out of time. Eventually, and inevitably, the bread crashes down on my checked wood. With a hollow thump, it rolls from my wood onto the floor. The fourteenth day must continue without bread.

You might be wondering what it is that I do, besides eating this bread of mine. Besides eating a piece, a piece a day, thirteen times. And I might tell you that I don’t do much more. I sit there and eat. I take all the time that I have and use it to sit and to eat. The first and the second day, the eating does not ask for a lot of time. The first day, that big brick of bread, that big brick that I consume on the first day, that piece is so sumptuous that I just swallow. I swallow it without chewing. As you remember, ever since the thirteenth day, I haven’t eaten.

Yesterday, I tried. I tried, as I try every fortnight, tried to swallow my fourteenth ration. Tried to soften this stone. Tried to soften this stone made of flour. But it just won’t soften on me. Sporadically, I want to show the stone, how hard it is that I try. As it does not seem to bother. As it does not seem to mind. As it does not seem to soften, I am tempted to reinforce my attempt. I am tempted to use that hammer. Tempted to sink it into that stone and to eat the splinters. But the thought tires me. All that effort, only to ensure a proper start. And this is what I get. An empty stomach. Tomorrow, and thus today, for it is already tomorrow- tomorrow I shall set out and drag my belongings. Drag my belongings to acquire that loaf which is to last fourteen days. As we already established how it is that I acquire the bread, there is not much more that I care to tell you. Once I return. Return to this place I don’t recognize; I am all exhausted.  Usually, all that previous dragging has tired me. It has tired me because there is much that I need to drag. Upon my return, I need to familiarize myself. Familiarize myself, for the sake of a family. I familiarize myself so that we can be together. Be together without friction. As there tends to be little I encounter, there is not much risk of friction. As there is little to familiarize myself with, my family is quite small. So here I am, here I am with my family. I don’t think that we are related, that we have the same blood, as they say. We don’t have the same blood, but they can have mine, as I don’t mind sharing. If they want to be of the same blood, they can have mine. But I am not too precise. I don’t mind which blood they have or if they have any at all. I familiarize myself and I realize that we are all family. Maybe because we are all family, no one really sees how precious that is. Perhaps because there is too much, there is too little. After encountering this family of mine, I make myself at home. I make myself at home in this home, which is none. I take the few things, and I gather them around me. I gather them around me, and they never leave. These things and I, me and these things, we sit there and the days pass. Always different, and always in the same way, I sit there, I sit with my family. And I try to ensure a proper start. Every day I try to ensure a proper start; I try to appreciate. Appreciate this family of mine. This family, which is so familiar, this family which changes every fortnight. This is how my days pass. This is how you get the days to pass, without a clock which outruns you. 

Is this how an introduction ought to be? Is this where I belong? Are we prepared to confront everything that lies ahead? No and no and no. Neither of these questions are to be answered. As hard as I try, I cannot furnish a proper response. I cannot shoulder the demand, cannot give you what you seek. Maybe the best way is to quit asking, to quit demanding.

I remember, there I was, demanding a hand. Was demanding a hand for a little help. There I was, thinking that three hands might be better than one. Better than two, even. For the first and last time, I was demanding a helping hand because I could not move on. I could not shoulder all that strain. There I was and no one was willing to lend me a hand. There I was, asking for little, asking for a hand which might help me with my mess. With this mess, I got myself into. Standing on that corner with the rain trickling down from my bald head. With these raindrops, messing with the little hair I had left. The rest of my hair, I lent to a friend. As I don’t mind sharing, I gave my hair to someone who said I should call her a friend. I don’t know where my hair is and I don’t know if it will return. I tried to grow myself a little more. But it just won’t return. There I was, with the little remaining hair, with the rain and with my two hands asking for a little help. For the first and last time, I sought assistance. I sought a hand at that dim corner. I had prepared myself well. I brought a piece of cardboard, and I used a pencil I found. I tore some holes which were to resemble a hand. There I was with this cardboard, which was all soggy from the battering rain. As I could not write, I tried to sign something. I tried to communicate without words, and I tried to acquire a hand. What marvelous things I could do, I thought, what marvelous things if something were to lend me a hand. I would not discriminate, I promised myself. Any hand would do as long as it is not mine. And there I was, with my hands and with the cardboard, which was all crumpled. There I was with that little hair and that intense rain which just would not stop. If I was as insistent as the rain, I thought. If I were that insistent, little would stop me. Stop me from what, I thought. From what was I stopped? There I was, standing there for uncounted hours. The rain would not stop, and my hands would not multiply. Two there were and none to join. That dim corner, I remember it well. That dim corner, that is where I gave up. Gave up acquiring another hand. Convinced that that hand was all that was lacking, I gave up finding one. Gave up asking. Ever since, I have been contending with my hands. Ever since, I have not asked for anything. Ever since, I feel that I am not alone and that you have been waiting. Have been waiting all that time to hear me out. To witness what it is that shall lie ahead. There is little I can entreat you to learn. There is little I have learned myself. But there is much I need to tell you.

It was brutal. Don’t get me wrong- brutal it was to accept all that loneliness. First, I tried to reconcile myself. I told myself that I am not alone. I have these hands, these hands in the plural. I have my legs, and although I don’t mind them much, these legs that I sometimes don’t recognize, these are the legs I have. The legs I would not mind sharing, but sharing it is that I am not permitted. As devastated as I was, I would even have bartered. I would have tried to remember how it is that an exchange works. How one gives and one receives. What an intricate relation it is that ties one to the other. What skirmish it is, to understand that this bread won’t be mine, unless I hand you some coins. But not any number of coins, an exact number. A number which never changes, except on some days when the vendor feels like it. A number which cannot be modified, at least not be modified by myself. And thus, every fortnight I struggle to acquire that exact, unchanging number. Sometimes, I have a little more and because this little more feels a little much, the vendor tends to help. Tends to alleviate this burden. The vendor takes the little more without flinching. Putting the exact number in the cupboard, the vendor quickly calculates the difference. As clever as the vendor is, the vendor calculates the difference and puts the difference in a small pouch. The vendor always stores the difference in the same pouch. As lonely as I was, I tried to muster how much it is that the vendor has generously taken. I tried to mobilize my capacities and I failed. Oblivious about the generously amassed difference, I decided that it must be a lot. It must be a lot that the vendor has taken, and maybe I should go there and demand it back. But then I remembered that this is not how an exchange works. If I want the difference back, I need, in turn, to provide something. I require something that the vendor wants. Briefly, I thought about my assortment of treasures and decided that none was appropriate. Sure, there is the hammer. And if I feel inclined, I could use the hammer to reinforce my demand. There was the hammer and the chipped metal. That night, I was close to using the hammer. I understand all that racket, that the hammer would have evoked. I understand that such an incident is not commonly accepted as a proper exchange. Still, I was close to using the hammer and the thought soothed me a little. I could have smashed the vendor’s taut face, could have ploughed through that granite stare. All pliable, the vendor’s face would possibly have lent me a little smile. One of these briefly flickering ones, where fear and pleasure converge. I could have used the mean side of the hammer to seize the little pouch where difference hides. But we must not discount that I am quite a peaceful soul. All that commotion would have unsettled me the most. The vendor, a little less rigid, in his smashed demeanor, would have sent me flying. Or maybe he would have buried me. Buried me next to his little dog. Who knows, that might just amount to the same. All rickety from these hideous thoughts, I decided that this shall not be done. I cannot even acquire a hand for this other pressing demand that looms so large. How shall I find a hand that helps me with such an acquired task? I would need a hand, as a lookout. I would need another hand to restrain that wretched vendor so that I could properly aim. So that I would precisely sink my hammer into that solid visage of his. And right thereafter we would all need to disperse quickly. I would need to seize the pouch, and we would need to scurry into different directions. Thereafter, I would try to establish an estimate of the reacquired coins. I would try to assess their amount and roughly distribute it among the helping hands. Oh, how lost I was. I could not even get a hand for that looming demand that we haven’t established yet. How shall other hands be found that might help me with such a wretched task? Maybe I could resort to more peaceful measures, maybe I could just hand over the hammer, the metal, maybe, after all, we could engage in a civilized, lax, exchange. But as the amassed difference was probably much, the vendor would not take any fancy in my treasures, which only amount to a little. You should try to understand that I was quite lost. With these two hands of mine, I could not help myself. I could not help myself enough with these two hands, as I was unable to lend myself a hand. I was all set on acquiring that little help that I needed. In that ghastly tempest, I thought about help. Help is another exchange. Why don’t they understand that help is just another type of exchange? That, when I ask for a hand, I am all set to give it back. I am no vendor. I won’t take your hand and put it in my pouch of riches. But still, still people were all set ignoring me.

There I was, soaked to my bones. Soaked to my bones in sorrow, people started to run, they paced past me and tried to hurry a little to not be battered by the brewing storm. Lonely as I was, I nearly gave up. Never was I as close to giving up. That unfortunate corner, the opalescent darkness above, the rumouring tide inside. Almost, my fluids subsided. I felt how they had given up on me. No need in supporting that fellow, they thought. No need to circulate that body, to animate that decaying mess. And the rain just wouldn’t stop. All that harrowing clamour of the world was emptied on my bald head. All sore from the battering rain, I was set on giving up. Or I was given up, which surely amounts to the same. I don’t want you to have a bad impression, though. I am not sinister; I don’t delve in all that darkness that we conjure. I am merely out of hands, I am out of help, out of support. Keeping myself erect, remaining upright, as crooked as I am, is no easy task. And all alone as I am, I couldn’t stand it much longer. As no one would ever take me seriously, I thought that this might be the best way to approach things. Not too serious, not too loose, I established some undefined ground on which I could remain afloat. But this time was different. Never have I asked for something.

It is unfortunate that this lenient claim, which rested so heavily between my neck and my arms, that this lenient claim would just not subside. Between my neck and my arms, all that tremor rested. I heard them elaborate on the weights they can no longer shoulder. On that stammering radio, next to the vendor, I heard them speak about all that weight that they must shoulder. Ever since I am an avid spectator of these weights which draw all of them to the ground, I cannot help but be intrigued by these burdens that let them capsize. What a remarkable occurrence that these ships, I sometimes dream of, that these ships need to load what they call tonnage. If they fail to ingest a remarkable portion, the calmest tide, the slightest reverberation of this great stagnant sea might toss them around until they sink to the ground. Don’t ask me where this comes from. If I commanded upon my memory, I would haunt it, and if I thereby could put an end to its ruthless claim, I would just stop. Would stop begging for your time, your hand, your ominous presence. But I haven’t finished. I only need to tilt my head a little, and my fluids gather on the tilted side. They gather and in their rushing flood they carry remnants, little specks of thoughts that cause some heinous dismay. But at least, and this is no minor thing, at least they show me that I am in good company. That if it is not you, at least I am joined by all these filthy fragments. But we shall remember these ships, for this is no minor anecdote. As these ships ingest a tremendous load, they suck in all kinds of animate creatures, and of course, they don’t fail to load themselves with even more inanimate junk. Obese as they are, they journey through the wildest commotion. And it is their weight, their tremendous, little load, that lets them float. If I were able to load myself like them, I would do it. Without the slightest exuberance, I would inhale all possible junk until I float, float towards the sunset. But neither do I have the resources, nor do I have the stomach to sustain that.

All the more so, my shoulders are of no help either. Lest I can borrow myself a shoulder to cry my heart out, I have none to offer. I am telling you, I myself have no definable shoulders. In a sloping line, my neck is tied to my arms. Maybe it is their absence which drains me so. Which makes me weak, as the vendor says. And I try to be very precise with this weakness. In all possible frankness, I confront it. Tell it to move along or to succumb to my strength. But neither my strength, nor my weakness, seem to mind such an address. Neither of them can be summoned, and I remain there, remaining afloat in a precarious middle between an upright posture and a faltering fall. I hold steady. Try not to give in to this luring appeal of collapsing. Try not to broaden my chest and to bend my back inwards, bend it inwards towards my paunch to remain erect and broad-bosomed as an animal that is just about to mate. An animal exposing its riches. Neither will do and as always, I occupy that middle, which is nothing of either, or a little of both. All wet and all timid, all decrepit and all helpless, I stand here. Stand here as I could, stand there like the stranger around your corner. Asking for little, I receive nothing. Asking for much, I receive the same amount. Empty-handed; I will have to retreat.

On a path that is to lead to a home, on a path that is neither mine nor leads to any home, I always have a lot of time that I can allot to thinking. It is not much more than a shelter that I seek. But this problem that looms so large will rid me of any shelter. It will rid me of any ramshackle little dwelling in which I could house; in which I could hide. Where I could display my little treasures that are neither mine, nor yours, but that have decided to accompany me on my timid descent. But is it really a descent on which I am bound to embark? Wouldn’t such a type of motion imply that on some day, on some day which belongs to the past, that on this very day I was somewhere desirable, or even more, that I was someone? And that now, on this descent of mine, I retrograde into this thing, which is a little less, which stands a little lower on this ladder they display at the doctors? On this ladder, I would surely be situated in the lower echelon. I would be situated on the step which indicates that I am the food of all the others. I am the food of others, so maybe, eventually, I should take a little bite and thus be quicker than the others. I should allow myself a little taste of this soggy flesh, which never warms me quite enough. Which never cools enough and which, therefore, keeps me extended in this intermediary domain in which there rests no comfort, where the chill is always a bit too frigid and where the heat is always a little too sultry.

This flesh of mine is of no use and maybe, one day, I will take a bite and see if the taste promises some relief. I will take that bite, and, for the first time, I will be quicker than others. I will prevent them from eating me, and thus I, and not you, will eat this me. Maybe, such a feast will instil me with some sense. Maybe this me will become an I, or maybe I will duplicate. But the latter, especially the latter, needs to be prevented. I must not multiply because this singular burden is already too heavy to lift. With these decrepit shoulders that are none, I am unable to stem this weight. If this weight were to grow, I would surely crash below it. I would flatten myself and these few juices that I house may finally be released. In a pretty little rivulet, these juices would meander around my flattened mess, and they would finally be liberated. Oh, what a large promise that is. I should keep these thoughts to myself. For, if these juices smell a hint of acquiescence. They will mobilize into a little trickle, and they will leave, they will put an end to this existence of mine which is not pretty but better than none. It is not pretty, but better than nothing. Because something is always what we seek. This I was told. This I was told, but I don’t remember when. I should remember because such an occurrence is a precious rarity.

Almost never am I addressed. How shall I be addressed if there is no address to turn to, if there simply is nothing that you could consult? If you ask me about my whereabouts, I will be decisively unsettled. I will ponder this pulsing head of mine and I will have no response. I would ask you where it is that you are, and how it is that I could address you properly. You would be confused, I would be confused, and we would need to part, I would need to leave, without direction, to this address I don’t have, and you would leave, all convinced that this wretched fellow is not to be trusted.

Of course, my ghastly features are of no help either. I have heard that I look like a torn piece of leather, fastened to a decaying frame. I have heard all kinds of lurid descriptions. You see, I tried to be sociable. For the longest time, I tried to offer myself to others. Whatever they would want to give me, I would take it. In return, they were to delve in my languid presence. For some lenient reason, this offer had no decisive appeal. No one would stop at that mentioned corner. And if I would try to smile a little, if I would attempt to lift both ends of my cracked lips, the results were much less desirable. For a long time, I attempted to smile. Smile a little, and you will remove all these dusty thickets from your mind. Smile a little and the wind will blow through your brain, a heavy tempest will chase away these daunting thoughts that haunt you so. This was the advice I received some day. Was it the doctor, was it a charitable fellow, was it at the mental ward that they call school? Who knows? Surely, I am the last to know. But as I said, my appearance is of no help either.

You see, my cranium is of an odd sort. My head is all teeming with life and yet, it is small. It rests on this imposing body which, as we established, serves me little. I should be cautious with this cranium because it would surely make a lovely crown on these skeletons they display at this very same doctor of mine. I have seen how the doctor inspects my bald head. How he uses some intricate implement to measure it. After these measurements, he would take my head and give it a good toss. Shaking it heedlessly, he would ask me about its state. I would be shown a scale on which to indicate the intensity of pain from which I suffered. I told him that I can’t quite tell, that I am a little dizzy, that’s all. He gave me another good shaking, which was quite detrimental in relieving me from my nausea. Again, I was shown the scale and pointed toward its lower end. Somewhere on the lower end, I pointed. I tried to be exact, but I failed, as every so often. The doctor seemed irritated. He didn’t like these folks that don’t look after themselves, that’s what he repeated. But my head is alright, as he told me. He also asked me how often it is that I engage in sexual expenditure. What, I said, what, he said. How often it is. How often, he asked. Clueless about my expenses, I remained placid. Probably he could discern that I was all heedless. Never having counted, never having properly discerned my expenditures, there was nothing adequate to say. What, I said, what, he said. Inpatient, he rephrased the question. How often it is that I relieve myself. The faeces, or the urine, I asked. What, he said, what, I said. Not defecation: the exaltation of sexual flourish, he said. The epiphany of libidinal intercourse. What, I said, what, he said. All florid, his elevated prose subsided. You can leave, he told me. No use in asking. The prescribed measure was to worry a little less. If I managed to be unperturbed for a little while, my headache would subside. For it was this headache that led me to the doctor. It was this terribly stifling headache. And when I headed out, my head battering as before, I was all content with this generous remark. From now on, I said, from now on, I will worry a little less and my little raisin, resting on my wavering body, will thank me.

It was obvious why I loved the doctor so much. How efficient he confronted my ills. How respectful he conquered my vows. Only the penultimate question tasted a little bitter. How often it was that I relieved myself. Did not relieve myself from semi-solid pressures. Did not share my trickle of fluids with the world. What was required was relief of some other sort.

Whenever some tingling sensation inflamed my organs, I thought of slugs. How beautifully they coat themselves in their petticoats of slime. How magnificent they must smell when they are ready to multiply. I thought of slugs and their unassuming self-sufficiency. If no partner is to be found, if no partner is willing to become entangled in a pirouette of languor, oneself will do as well. Multiplying without the presence of another is surely no easy task. And maybe it is the slug that I should study. Maybe the slug will demonstrate how I may relieve myself without the presence of a partner. Maybe then I will be able to spend a lot of the little I have, to truly engage in sexual expenditure, as the doctor said. We should not fool ourselves. By no means am I oblivious regarding the sluggish life. Often have I marvelled about its moderation, about its protracted calculation of that which lies within reach and that which shall remain beyond. Sometimes, when sitting in the park, I would focus on one of them. I would choose a fat one. A true gourmet. I would stand there, careful not to trip, careful not to smash the slug with my face. I would try to get as near as I can. There I am, my face close to the lusciously exuding slime. Maybe it is a sign. Now that I have these generous remarks in mind, the ones from the doctor, now that I come to think about the possibility of veritable intercourse, I should closely think about this one time that I was so close to the slug. I lowered my head as far is it would go. I would use my right eye and open it wide. As far as it will open, I open it and I stare. That day, I could discern a little tickle on my back. When the slug vividly exuded its mucus, irritated from me prodding it with a stick, I could clearly tell that my back started to become all itchy. I wanted to scratch, scratching voraciously was all I could think of for a short while. But the trade-off was difficult to accept. Either I scratch and thereby squander my perilous balance, or I remain transfixed, staring at this beauty of a mollusc. Usually, I take a lot of time to ponder upon such a decisive crossroad. But this time, I just could not let go. There it was, this fat brown slug, all timid and all transfixed. As mentioned, I always choose the gourmet. And this one was just one of those. All the slug’s relatives just started to nibble on the next best thing. Some of them contended with omnipresent rubbish, others feasted on their neighbours. But my exemplar started off onto this long and tiring journey.

It had selected a lupin, flowering at the far end of the park. Don’t ask me how it tracked it. The plant’s obese flowers must have complacently dispersed a heavy musk. That afternoon, I followed the slug on its arduous path towards this acquired feast. It must have taken all day to traverse the park. No, it was not too large of a distance, no. But we need to keep in mind that these gastropods prefer the slow life. I myself, I feel a closer tie with the slug than the snail. The snail has its home. It carries it along all night. The snail is frightened to lose its heritage, to lose its ground. But the slug, the slug, is homeless. And without a home, it can make itself domestic wherever it pleases. The slug, this very slug, was all set to acquire its meal. And as I could not restrain myself, as I was driven by this tingling sensation, I prodded it whenever I pleased. Sometimes, I poked one eye, upon which it deflated itself, was consumed by the brown worm of a body. Then, I poked the other, and the snail repeated the introversion with the other eye. I waited a little, and the slug resumed its journey. It bent the eyes forwards to be as close to the destined provision, as the body would allow. Then, I would take my stick and caress the back of the slug. Slowly, and carefully, I moved back and forth according to a rocking movement that I deemed pleasant. The slug took no particular liking in that act. It increased its slime production and if my solace derailed a little, if I poked a little too intensely, that fat slug would curl into a massive amalgam of flesh, upon which I sometimes dared to use a finger instead of the stick. I used my finger and borrowed a little of this lively, opalescent sludge. Then, having borrowed a little, I would extend the respective finger towards my nose and try to take a good long breath. Unfortunately, as my senses are not too reliable, there was nothing to detect. The tingling increased a little, but that might equally well have been the washing that I skipped that day.

In my consternation, I decided to leave the muck on my finger. Maybe a later whiff would be as joyful as I mustered it to be. For that moment, I content myself with the slug’s company. It did not seem to mind, it did not seem to oppose. Neither was it particularly pleased, though. Notwithstanding my presence, it continued its journey. Sure, it must have acknowledged that my romantic inclination had significantly slowed its proceedings. As the appetite for food must have been more pronounced than the hunger of the flesh, it continued. Toward the lupin, flowering in bright hues that bordered aesthetic molestation. By the time the slug reached its destined feast, the gray dimness of day passed itself to the pleasantries of the night. I don’t recall the time it took. Neither do I bother estimating. What I remember is that this must have been the closest I have been to the making of love. As there is no one I could consult, I rely on my own approximations. Tiring as that day was, it is not often that I can outspend myself that way. Such sexual expenditures are not to be sustained too often. It took me several nights to recuperate. I had to skip my allotted meal two times, as I needed to sleep. I needed to embrace the deep slumber of the virile.

This was how the doctor must feel. After a day of precious advice, after a day that closes with the expenses of the sexual sort, the doctor’s sleep must be this bleak darkness in which there is nothing but rest. In which there sometimes might be the unrest of the deranging dream, but this must not bother us now. One day, I will ask the doctor about his sleep. After these two days of rest and after this decisive intercourse with the slug, I was depleted. I had to resort to doubling my nourishment. Four rations, turned into two. The next time I meet the doctor, I will not only ask about his sleep but will also remind him of his question. If I respond to his question about the frequency of the sexual act, he surely will be able to provide me with prescriptions that are even more detrimental to my pain.  And thus, we both benefit. What, he says. Seldom, I say. How many partners, he says. What, I say. Concerning the number, I cannot but surrender.

You must think that my life is comprised of loitering. Food, expenditure, sleep, and rest. However, you must not discount that all that takes its toll on my frame. Never have I been of the robust type. And thus, all these expenditures that we recalled, diminish my frail substance. I would not mind sharing all of this. All these riches must not be reduced to my incoherent embrace. But as no one bothers joining me, I cannot but continue this decrepit journey of mine. Like the slug, I don’t allow the arduous path to divest me of pleasantries. But you remember that there is something I have not narrated yet. There is something which looms in the background of this foul life of mine. And if we shall not confront it, it will put an end to myself. It will put an end to myself like this; full stop. This full stop they use to indicate that something is drawing to an end.

Sometimes, when all this intensity takes its toll, sometimes, I think about the final rest. It would be joyful if there was a friend to commemorate me. I tend to dream of such a friend. Having me as a friend is no easy task. But we should be precise about this. Having me as a friend is an easy task. The problem comes with sustaining. I will be the thirst one to throw myself onto you. As soon as my receptors indicate that you are well-intentioned, I will spare no effort to be with you. Maybe this is what I learned from the slug. Maybe this makes us relatives. But hopefully, it does not speak of our kinship, for this results in problems regarding the sexual act, as I am told. Anyway, I will bulge my eyes intensely and I will fixate you. Perhaps these glimmering oversized pebbles, blistering in my small face, will frighten you a little. However, and this is another thing I learned, if you are of the well-intentioned type my harrowing gaze will not put you off. Maybe it will even charm you. My eyes will be all fixated and I will embark on this slow movement towards you. It will take time to reach you. But if you are willing to embrace my friendship, you might wait. Wait for me to embrace you. Until I reach you, the tingle of my bulging eyes might be just enough to entreat upon you, to lend me a little time. I think that is what has doomed my friendships to failure.

Definitely, my eyes are of the suffering sort. Usually, the pensive look rates high in these juvenile magazines that litter the pavement. With a little generosity, you might rate my gaze as one that pertains to this sort– ’pondering the vagrancies of life, the pensive type boasts a strict complexion. When amused, only a slight whirring of the lips is to be detected. Such static features are hard to read. It is this ambiguity which bestows the pensive type with a particular charm that inflames the true connoisseur’.

I don’t quite remember where I read it, or if I read it all. Maybe it is a brainchild of mine, and if it is, they should hire me somewhere. If it is of my invention, they should hire me and I should no longer be one of these fools that has to juggle all the time, that has to walk on a perilous tightrope. Especially not me, for I already trip on the pavement. But to speak of circus tricks would be misleading. Maybe they could also hire me in one of these factories where they think of the messages, they put in the fortune cookie. It would be a fortunate occurrence if I could have the cookie and could think of the fortune. I am willing to share my inventions. I am willing to share my liquids, but as of yet I have found no one willing to receive the former or the latter. The doctor has offered me to clean his office. He told me that I needed to provide the broom and that I can only come once no one is to be expected. Very early in the morning or late at night. As long as it is dark, I can come. I can come with my own broom, and I clean the office. Later, the doctor said, if I have proven my value as a cleaning implement, I can put it on my CV. But I should be careful, both, with my brainchildren and my frail life. If it is put to rest, all these children will be left behind.

Don’t take me wrong, though, I am all content with the little things I have. The sole occurrence that bothers me is the great effort it takes to gather the needed sum, to obtain myself that loaf of mine. Thus, maybe I should think about the delicate oddities I could be offering to the world. About the things that I am willing to excavate, to display in plain sight, for anyone who is willing to exploit me. To sell my labour, so to speak. I know, there is nothing remarkable about me. As you might have discerned, I tend to be situated among the awkward entities. Whoever brought me into this world must have been quite appalled by my wrinkled head, by my bulging belly, my haphazard posture, my drooping lips and my uneven feet. If we think about it, my inventory consists of numerous things. But, of course, I should not fool myself. What is needed are the features that are rare that others don’t have. I myself can provide nothing of that sort. All I have has been there for as long as my recollection goes. The few objects that have been added to this ensemble of oddities have already been established. And thus, only furnished with this sameness of mine, with this sameness that is too different for most folk, I should muster a plan that will prove how dedicated I am. How willing, to offer anything, like every honest employee should. Maybe, I could spice up my CV if I fabricate the date of my last rest. Maybe, if I put it there, next to the birthdate I don’t know, maybe this might just be the last bit of charm that is lacking. What should the advantage of such fabrication be, you might ask. I will tell you.

Well, well, here is my CV, here are my dates. The date of the beginning and the end. As you already know of my end, as my end is sufficiently distant, you might take a liking in hiring me. As you can rest assured that I will remain with you, until the indicated date, your investments into myself will not be in vain. Quite the contrary, as the stony path ahead is still long, still arduous, you can rest assured that I will remain. Moreover, as my family is already complete, replete with these few brainchildren of mine, you must not fear that I will entreat you to provide me some leave. No, I won’t become pregnant, I won’t ask for some private time, I am all yours. As long as you seek to hire me, I will be yours. Until the end, transparently announced in my CV, I will be yours. In addition, I will officially hand you all my children. In this case, you can be sure that I will not be distracted by parental duties, and you will have full control over my life and my time. You will have all these bright ideas of mine and I will be emptied. Ready to be filled by the important tasks you might assign me to complete. Rest assured, I will spare no effort to fulfil everything according to your desire, according to my best knowledge and skill. And if I take a quick breath now, if I take a step back and spectate all these things I have to offer, I must say that is not so little. In fact, it is quite a lot. To offer everything, until my days have passed. But then again, I know that this is just what you want. This is what you expect, from an employee, from a friend, from the beggar around the corner, from the doctor with sexual compulsion, from the slave. And as you will settle with nothing less than everything, I am willing to give it to you. And, as an addition, as this tiny little extra that differentiates me from all the rest, in the form of a lenient supplement, I will even try to defeat these compulsions of mine. I will try to establish the most definite. I will indicate when it shall be that I finally rest and you, you, receive the most complete CV that you can imagine.

Maybe, if the horizon is so transparent, if the end is indicated in such an unassuming fashion, it will cover up the complete lack of professional experience. Eventually, I will indicate the thorough experience I have in relation to surviving. I understand that once it comes to the experiential, there are very particular things that are of interest. Whereas others, especially if we are talking about the quotidian, the pedestrian, the modest, are of no need. What to do with this peon, with this conglomerate of fat, what to do with such a crumbling mountain of flesh. Not even able to tie his shoes, not even able to get past her accumulation of flesh, how shall I make use of that? He, she? This person must be a lover of the carnal pleasure. Must be one of the useless ones, always thinking about stuffing her face with the most acquired, the eccentrically priced, delicacies. Always thinking about the escape, how he might get past the payment, towards the next feast, paid by others. And yet, such a verdict could not be more misleading. No doubt, I am a connoisseur of the bread. I know exactly how much it will harden until the next day; how incomparable the initial crust is. How little it can be compared to the mean leather it soon forms. Of course, my bread is never good. On the first day, I always receive the old, the surplus, the rubbish, as the vendor says. Thus, its descent already embarks from a very low point. From a diminished position, it sinks lower, towards the subterranean.

And if I consider it closely, this is where I feel most comfortable. Where the least expectations exude their haunting clamour. Where I can be what I am. Which is sometimes little, which is sometimes much. Which, most often, escapes my calculations. And here I am. Here you are. I give. You take. And we both form a communion. For the first and last time, something takes interest in my condition. And here I am, here I flourish– thinking about getting a job.

You see, the giving and the taking, they constitute a difficile relation. One that escapes my tacit understanding. Anyway, as I said, you can have it all, I give it, you take it, and it will make no difference. There can be only riches in the giving, as the preacher says. There can only be loss in the receiving, as the vendor says. As I only need that tiny little which puts the bread on my wood, on my belly, on my stool. If I receive it every fortnight, without the constant brawl it implies, then I might be what you call happy. I tried it with a hand, I tried lending it. But as there is no use in the recourse to the gifts, to the things that are free of charge, I will need to think about entering the economic sphere, as they say. Turn myself into something desirable, on the job market. I am yet to peruse the vendor what it is that I shall do with this pamphlet of mine. Ask whether it is spicy enough. If it provokes that little bit of tingle, differentiating me from all the rest.

And as of yet, you must be quite irritated. Here you are, here you came to hear of misery, to hear of dramaturgy, to at least get a little of the Bacchic eccentricity that comes with the narrations that delve in nothing but whatever a deranged thing life might be. Recounted, closely inspected, we realized that you got nothing of the like. Here, you read of the haggard worm, the filthy scab, the affluent of decency and all you get is the usual; self-optimization. All of a sudden, this swine asks to be released from its barn. No longer wanting to drink from the ditch where excrement and water converge, that thing is inquiring if it can take a seat at your table, if it can share your wine, take a bite of your little nibbles that you use to inflame your appetite. Then, you head out. Out into the world where the girls are mostly naked and where the male animal always sports the same ridiculous tie, used to prevent its decency from evaporating. And that obscenity is even keen to join you on your night out. Where you try to forget everything, mostly your mother. Even there, it asks to accompany you. For now, now, unlike before, it is a member of the decent ones, the ones that drink in bars not on the streets, the ones that use the cutlery not the fist, the ones that return to their wife or husband not the solitary room, not the worm riddled mattress. Okay, easy now. I need to restrain myself. See, I warned you. Sometimes, it all grows over my head, it gets too much, and I become all anxious. Anxious as I am, I need to ventilate my sentiments. Solely living in my head is no sustainable thing. It consumes you, and you ask if what you see is what you see or if it is made up and as no one is willing to answer you, you have to contend yourself with the inability to discern. What is right, wrong, subliminal, concrete, what is, what is not. And here we ended up in this mess. I asked for little, and as most of the time, I did receive less. But it shall not matter. You are the last who is responsible for this minor outburst. For the benefit of the story, it seems important to briefly remember why it is that I told you these few things. And. Well. I can’t tell. Or I can, but it shall not matter for now. Nonetheless, we shall revisit and you yourself will eventually see. The curtain will lift, and my insobriety will lighten like the early morning when the sun wakes the dew. But I am not drunk, rest assured, I am not.

Maybe I should try it once, potentially the liquor will ease my soul and the words will trickle from this paunch of mine. This fat swollen ball I have to lift, day and night, will empty all of a sudden. And this mighty mess of words will be all yours. Certainly, such a thing would result in even less coherence, and thus I will prevent myself from drinking, now and henceforth. Get to the point, you foul fool. That is what you might like to yell. Or, what do you want, you deaf rascal. Get to your corner, or I will toss you there. Maybe I heard this before, maybe it was my mother, maybe my father. What difference does it make? Can I have more than one of each, or just one? What about the child-rearing of slugs, do they leave their brood, or do the younglings get to eat with their parents? I know, I should not ask questions but answer them. If they are rhetorical, they might be allowed. But I know, you came here for the story, and I am to provide it. If I now engage in a litany of complaint, about the absence of the parents, the parental love, the solitude, the persistent toll of the melancholic, you will probably be more irritated than you already are.

And there it is. Another mistake. I should not speculate how you are, but mobilize all my efforts to summon this or that feeling of yours. Compassion, furor, disgust, alacrity, relief, pleasure, boredom. Yes, here we are. I provide you nothing but an anachronic typology of feeling. But be certain, it will change, I will get myself together and not squander this chance. Your impression of mine must be a lousy one. That thing, stuffed with food. Probably homeless too, at home everywhere, as it says. All alone, due to derangement of the mental and the physical sort. Tied to a doctor, seeking to use him as a tool. Tied to a kleptocratic vendor. Tied to a waning thread, that has never been rendered explicit. At least thus far, which is already far too long. Too long for my striking liver, my raging thirst, my vigorous desire. And then again, if I am honest, I don’t mind it too much. And if you are honest, you should concede that there is some beauty in my meandering incontinence. Mine is of the linguistic sort. Not the urinal. As we have finally established this, I shall tell you that my life is quite stuffed. All these few things, fill it to the brim. They fill it until it almost bursts at the seams. Such an explosion we shall prevent from happening.

Only yesterday, I let you in on the intricate details of my nutritional habits. The outset is one that needs to be properly planned. Everything in my life focuses on this initial effort. I tell myself that a neat beginning is all that is needed, to overcome anxiety, to meet my goals, to tell you the story you seek and to soothe my gaping wounds. Ah, how conventional. I disclosed, how, at first, I sought assistance. How the absence of the helping hand, convinced me of the vanity of such an endeavour. Moreover, I did not fail to mention that the doctor of mine, the doctor who is as good as any, wants the best for me. A tidy little life with a CV, boasting of my riches, my strength, my adaptability. How the vendor divests me of the little money I rake together. Maybe to store it for me, maybe to steal from me, but what is the difference. The difference is none. And now, that we have revisited it all, now I am but exhausted. Now, that I outspent myself, we are thrown aback, unable to discern where to head now. How to move on, how to wade through the ticket of languor that I need to bear.

And, I repeat. I don’t do much more but repeating. In the repetition, I thrive. Although, doubtlessly, to speak of thriving seems a little too generous. In the repetition, I feel something, rather than nothing. In it, I tell myself that my life has not expired, that there is still something to squeeze from it. A few more drops. And then, once I have finished the redundant, I confront it once more. The experts are others, surely not myself. And in general, not in particular, I have to concede that the heavy tasks are to be left to the others. Thus, I can undoubtedly assist in the minor errand, in the chores that are commonly neglected, in the petty toil that piles up, until it looms dangerously large. We must not neglect that the minor thing can easily become an obstinate monstrosity. This is another one of these wise remarks I acquired from the doctor. As a free addition, derived from the Hippocratic oath, or from the lore of hypocrites, I but dimly remember.

In any case, you might regard me as a maggot on the festering wound. Closely inspected, a disgusting thing, to see this winding piece of pestilent and pulsating meat. But upon even closer inspection– if you don’t let me reign freely, bar me from pleasing my hunger through your rotting effuse, you might be in considerable trouble. A small wound, unattended, rapidly becomes this cancerous obscenity that can no longer be held in check. I myself am of course free of these regulatory needs. For such management would imply the distant possibility of restored order. Of a functioning organism, with neatly turning cogs, hierarchical, tyrannical, controlled through the leash, unimpeded thanks to blind obedience. Isn’t it marvellous how, in case of success, the laurel wreath decorates one head, and one head only. For, if the gains are splendid, it can only be the result of one bright mind, ignoring the need to sleep, neglecting the relational duties, accepting the pit and the pendulum. But beware, beware when failure strikes. In such a case, it must have been the wretched foolery of the lot, not the few. The vagrancies, the neglect, and especially, the procrastination. These must be damned, and those predicates can only be found in the unpalatable masses.

As we established before, according to the perspective of my prospective employer, he, for he must be male, or better, without sex, which amounts to the same, he is the director, puppeteering the masses. But the masses stink and are composed of a bunch of sloths. Thus, it cannot be the fault of the director, abusing power, chopping heads, demanding everything. It can only be the fault of myself, as any other. And please don’t misapprehend me. By no means is it misguided to be perceiving me along all these loafing vagaries of the lazy fool. No, there is no moral charge. There is no proposition for advancement. Please move on, nothing to be seen. Guilty as charged, as they say. Here I am, unable to discern where to go and how to move properly. Where to turn my eyes while walking. But walking it is not, while lurching through the streets. One leg shorter than the other and the hip trying to compensate for it. My spinal cord as well. Ah yes, we have not talked about my back, feeble as it is. No need to fathom that I might derive any stability from it, not to speak of rectitude. My back seems to anticipate the moment it no longer needs to carry anything. Unfortunate indeed, not being able to rely on one’s physique. Doleful thing but there is no shame in aiming low.

There, shall I ask this hag or that bum? May they guide me. As there is no guidance to be derived from my life, any path will do. Why talk to the delusional? Well, I don’t know. But why talk at all? I would have been the first one to prefer silence. But then again, it is quite useless to resort to the absence of words. If yours don’t bombard my skull, others do their best to burst me from the inside. To tickle me here and there, to remind me of my misery. My misery is none, of course. For, how should I tell? You are of no help either.

Careful now, watch me adapting an air of leisure. Promenading on these boulevards that form the centres of cities. Give me your bag, I will hand you my pushcart. Armed with this bag and advancing in this particularly careless pace, I must be as good as any. Which is pretty bad, but still preferable than the below average. And much better than all these subcategories, which –due to their incredulity– fail to be mentioned at all. Here I go, waving this bag a little. I do it furtively but without intention, the waving must derive from my limping.

Eventually, one day, once I care a little more, I might apply a piece of plastic to my right heel. How my tread will transform once my legs are even. Might be a marvellous thing. Or it might be terrible, as it forces all my fibres to, all of a sudden, comply with symmetry. I shall find out, once I come across the piece of plastic which will be required, and I shall find out, if I will be able to mobilize the faculties which are needed for such a procedure. Oh, an unlikely prospect. And the conditional. We have not tended to it the way it deserves. How important this if. How central it figures in this unremarkable life of mine. If I try as good as I can, I might finally occupy a role in this relational mess of ours. Protasis, apodosis. Food, hunger. Feast, after feast. Ah, how simple. That is how a proper life must be, purged of contingency. As for me, there is only difference. Chance. Solvency. Maybe that is why this if never bestows me with anything. Only waits to smash my head, upon the slightest misdemeanour.

No need for irritation, no need to capitulate. I take this bag of yours and I tread along. I sport my cleanest clothes and I amble along this boulevard. Making sure that my posture is acceptable and that my demeanour is particularly resolute. Occasionally, I allow myself a little detour. For if I only rush along, I might be taken as an impostor. I might be taken as a burglar, a crook, if I don’t take in all the riches that are displayed in the shopfronts.

I head into one of the cheap stores. These are more welcoming. Here, you don’t have the guards, perusing you, your intentions, your wallet. Here you only have the chaos of mimicry. People looking for decor. A handkerchief here, underpants there. And maybe this corkscrew, its price doesn’t screw you, as it says on the tag, dangling from its side. This must be life, that is what I think while touching most but taking nothing. Look at all that rubbish, I think while fingering a tablecloth, more noble than mine. Here I am, among all these upright members of society. Who knows, I might strike up a friendship, or I might be struck down by one of the employees. What a sensation, to venture into the unknown, but then again, as I know little it is not too sensational. What a beggar I am. This is what I tell myself while I sense some suspicion around me. Maybe it is my smell, perhaps my excitement.

Be it as it may, I don’t seem to be worthwhile and upon answering, more than once, that I don’t look for anything specific, I understand that to be left alone, I need to send them off onto the wrong track. Thus, I ask for a very specific measurement of this or that garment. I ask for acquired colours of this and that trinket. All in all, it must have been half a day that I spent in that store. Marvellous, is it not? Me, among all of you.

After such success, I become particularly diligent, I might even line up at one of the fancy stores. It escapes my calculation as to why there are lines for the sake of being robbed, but it shall not matter. I will wait for an hour in the sweltering heat. I will wait until it is my turn and just before I am permitted entrance, I will offer my admission to the next best vagabond. Here, you go first. I need to head on, what a busy day is it not? The rays of light will be filtered through a thick clog of smog, and it will be all pleasant. Hot and gloomy. Here I am. Out and about on my shopping trip. With a loaned bag. Without anything inside but a few pebbles, but it shall not matter, as the name it sports is well known. Known among my fellow shoppers. Known among the bailiffs. Here I am, swinging this bag, sometimes a little too diligent. Sometimes a little too limp. What do I do upon reaching the end of the street? Do I return? Take a seat? Probably neither, for that would be too languid. I must understand that I am busy and that this permits no doubts, no second thoughts, no reverie. How easy it is, who would have known? I, for my part, haven’t. How easy to accede into society. Oh. that’s misguided. High arching. Irresolute. There is no such thing, that’s what I heard. And what am I but a receptacle of that which was poured into me. Little? Much? That’s of no difference and shall not preoccupy me. Here I am. Enjoying a day of shopping. Spending nothing but sporting the air of consumption. Beautiful, what a little trickery can do. I feel exchanged. Vivid. 

After such a spasm, I am set. All set, rest assured. I am set to become like you. Respected, accepted, or at least tolerated. Able to remain afloat. Who knows, maybe even full of aspirations? Generously stuffed, fatty pastry. Lacquered in beautiful hues. Strawberry, persimmon, fig. Anyway. You are waiting, and I am letting you wait. It is not easy for me either. Carrying my skin. Heaving my thoughts along. But I don’t need your empathetic affirmation, no, that I need not. My desires are more rudimentary. Here I stroll, cautious not to flatten you with my weight. Here I am, pregnant with meaning but unable to press it out, to express it. What is left but to accept that there might be nothing but a little trickle. Undecipherable, ever-changing, dull.

Besides the place I inhabited once, when that was, I cannot discern, there was a small rivulet. I assume it was fed by the discharge of our domicile. For no matter how dry it was, and rest assured, it was dry, there always dribbled a little rivulet. Squatting there, for back then I was still able to squat, I looked at the timid water. What a pretty sight, that’s what I would have said, if back then I would have had an aesthetic apparatus, capable of the assessment of such matters. From my notebook, for back then, I still took notes in a book (a book it was not, rather, a pile of papers, stapled together). From this pile, I tore pages. Preferably, the ones which were already filled with my thoughts, some dreams, some desires. These I carefully chose and tore them out, in one reckless act. Then, I tried to fold a little steamer, a cruiser, or a dingy, it shall not matter, as long as it swims, I thought. I reproached myself for being clever. Before long, I had to admit that my folding was of no use in acquiring a floating object. Tossing the paper into the streamlet, I watched it capsize. But how can it sink if that damn rivulet only carried a miniscule amount of water? Well, it cannot, you are right. That crumpled pile of paper was sitting in that stream. The water did not even suffice to soak it. To consume my dreams. Irritated, I pissed on it. For I must have pissed, sometime or other, as bloated as I was. What a success. Without some friends in reach, there was no one to marvel at my ingenuity. Oh, what profanity. What a dull thing, to see all these aspirations, soaked in urine. Prosaic, ordinary. But I should not be too quick. For me, it was a remarkable occurrence to see the product of my mind communing with the refuse of my body. Ah, what a shabby dualism. Rickety child’s play.

Disillusioned, I returned. I returned to where I came from, which probably amounts to a home. My mother, for it must have been my mother, who prevented that shack from collapsing, always served me a steaming pile of gunk. What it was, it shall not matter, for I’d rather be poisoned by my mother, if I am to be poisoned at all. Except, of course, that brute was not my mother and that shack not my home. But I have never considered such an option. Maybe I should. Maybe a little scepticism would serve me better than I care to admit.

When my mother asked me about my whereabouts, I alluded to my adventures. As my mother shall not see how conventional I am, I disguised these adventures. To defecate on one’s dreams must be a common thing, I thought. Except in my case, it was urine. At least, I was a little original. Be it as it may, faeces or not, my mother was not to hear about my obscenity, my expenditures, my ominous predilection. Where is the father? Well, we do not know. Or rather, I am all negligent. You see, sometimes this self of mine turns into a we. Maybe because I speak of you too, or maybe because I am more than one, which is nothing remarkable. But we talk about the father now, not about you. The father was nowhere to be seen. Maybe it was the plumber who sub-rented a corner of our four walls. Maybe there was always only my mother. Parthenogenesis. Like a lizard. Ah, the virgin has given birth. What a beautiful story, the wet dream of Catholics. No, virgin she was not. I only remember that the shack towered on a little hill. Like a small little pustule, the hill gently sloped into town. From it, I could easily reach the lower recesses. There, life blossomed. On our hill, battered by the sun, and perused by the moon, there was nowhere to hide.

At night, the bluish hue of the darker hours captured me below my sheets. When I tried to get a little private, the moon eyed me attentively. Thus, all in all, my childhood was splendid, if I ever was a child. In fact –facticity is a dull knife– I always felt a little on the adolescent side. When my playmates encountered their flowering groin, I already thought about my pension. How am I to be paid for doing next to nothing? That thought molested me, as it does now. Don’t get me wrong, not that I deem retirement to be an obstinate, inchoate phase. Much rather, I perceive it as a beautiful stunt. Toiling to the penultimate, to eventually have a little bit too much to give up and a little too little to lay down on my faltering skin and to, finally, stop thinking. The only downside is that I still have to wait. And probably, the day they calculate my efforts, the day that they will open their giant ledger, the day that they encounter my name, as a tiny little splurge in their pure census, that day they will realize how useless I am. They will take a red pencil and cross out my name. Nice and easy, they will delete my name from their list, and it will be a great pleasure, of an almost sexual sort. Then, they will take a black book. In it, they jot down my name. How fast of a passage, eh? From some- to no-, and back to somebody. There I am now, a name among many, in the list of the useless, the jesters, the half-wits.

As we can see, when I was a young fool -old in thought, doubtlessly- but still fresh and soft, things were easier. Due to some peculiar reasoning, the younglings still occupy an intermediary domain. In it, they shall have room for their exploits, their adventures, their foolery. One fine day, an adult will decide that now it is the time that this or that critter must understand how blunt life can be. Depending on personal taste, a good beating, some psychological trickery, or some finely composed elegy will be used to seize the moment and to train that thing, which is a little bit too much like you, to subdue it or to pledge for submission. And henceforth, the child will be exchanged. All of a sudden, the colour of youth is handed over to the filth of maturity. And please don’t misapprehend me; or do, if you please.

Wisdom to the wise, this is no praise of the juvenile. Being capable of praise must be a noteworthy thing. Elevating something from the understory, heaving it into the light. Off to the races. You must not convict me of treachery. If I talk about the past, I do so to understand a little less. What a life it must be. Spoiled as a critter, sent to school in a squeaky-clean garb. Flinching a little when the unpopular one is given a beating. But only a little, for it is clear that one needs to retain one’s composure. What a wondrous thing, to have a narrative in mind. One that spans a lifetime. One that includes the sandwich in the morning, the exploitation at noon, the mating at night. You come to forget. And what you get is remembrance. Now, you must have an understanding of the irritation that waits for me at the bottom of a bottle. In one mighty gulp you empty that kerosene into your bowels and all you get is more of the past, and less of the present. All you get is more detail and less composure, more montage, less coherence. Imagine, how diligent I must have trodden down that hill, past a mighty birch, if it was a birch. Past one tree, for it must have been a tree, always sporting some metaphoric appeal. As it perilously clenched itself to the mountainside, withstanding slips and slides, withstanding drought, and the knife of the fools, inscribing their love, their hatred, their conventionality. I myself often sat there, lowering my bottom on one of its roots. There I was, empty as often. But bloated too. There I was, trying to spit a little. I would gather what there was in my mouth and I tried to spit far. Most often, I would soil my pants instead of the ground. You see, dexterity is a treacherous thing. Sitting and idling, I thought about my mother. The absence of friends. Or allies, at least.

The plumber at home often stammered about the need for allies. They will lift you from the dump, he said. Allies are enough, no comrades. They shall not be comrades, he said. For these latter ones, you are supposed to like, while the former ones you can hate. You can hate them from the depth of your heart, and they will still have to clean your bottom if you fail to do so. There I was, thinking about myself and my tiny little pride. Be proud, he yelled. Stand up for yourself, you little brag, he said, while stuffing his face gluttonously with my mother’s gunk. There I was, trying to muster the little pride I had. It was not long before I realized that there is nothing of the sort.

Diligently, I tried to find it in myself. I even lifted some dusty curtains that I usually tend to leave undisturbed. All that I encountered was emptiness, and thus I resorted to what I do well. I resorted to sitting, idling, to take in that vista, which was not pretty, but which soothed my soul, for some strange reason. There I was, sitting on this root which inflicted a little pain on my buttock. This is how it shall be, I thought. A little pain in the ass but pretty, all the same. And you must confess. It is no easy feat to disentangle this pain from that joy, this sorrow from that ecstasy. On top of that difficulty, I was confronted with the ominous status of pride. Thinking about the plumber, I could not help but associate this unknown predicate with the wretched misdemeanour of that stinking fool. Maybe this is what pride is, I thought. Blissful vacuity.

When my mother served him his daily meal, included in the meagre rent, he tended to resort to his glamorous past. Before he was a plumber, he must have been a sailor, as gifted as he was in navigating the turbulence of rancid anger. Thrusting his wooden spoon into the heaping serving, he screamed. A significant proportion of his food landed on his lap, and in my face. Listen closely, you toddler, listen for I shall tell you about my rectitude, my honour, my pride. When I was as young as you, he said. When I was young, I already earned my living. Even before I learned not to soil my pants, he said. Even before that very day, I earned my living. My father was a lazy drunkard, but he taught me pride, he said. He taught me how to walk broad bosomed, how to land a clean punch and how to steal a little, from what should be yours. You see, he said. Small little rascals like you, steal from me. They breathe my air, walk on my soil. They should go. You should go, he said. Go and take your mother with you. I rather eat nothing. Rather than ingesting this muck, I eat nothing. All them fancy spices, what is that shit? Tastes like foreign food, he said. No good for my native taste. Take your mother and leave me your shack. Leave, he said, while choking on another spoon. She wants to kill me. To take my money and to steal my land, that is one theft too much, he said. Complicated thing, such pride. Stuffed with expectation, with diligent calculation of that which needs to be retained, fostered even, and that which shall be cast aside, where you won’t find it, where you won’t be molested by its lingering presence. Complicated thing, such pride. And maybe due to its intricacies, I was unable to discern it.

And it is not that I didn’t try. No, trying I did. I tried myself, my hopes, my petty little desire. There I was, sitting on a root, uprooting my innards. But nothing came to the fore, and I couldn’t have cared less. From up there, I was able to enjoy a little peace. For that must be peace– the absence of pride, the unimpeded vista, my small little heart, rejoicing in the slower pace it could allow itself for a while. I am not too robust, no, robust I am not. Another wise remark from the plumbing sailor: Get yourself together, one little hit and all you do is cry. You should show some gratitude. A punch or two will make you stronger, he said. All the more so if they always land at the same spot. A bone that breaks restores itself thrice as sturdy. I’ll kick you again, and you’ll see, he said.

What a precious upbringing I received. But that, I surely, did not think. That is what I say today. Not back then. And I should not confuse you. All these memories just fly left and right, no need, trying to control them. To harness them into a coherent account. Why would you, even? To understand better, to discern what you are, where you want to go, what there is to achieve. Nothing of that sort. For, if I would be able to tame my mind, I would surely not use it for such prose. I would never revisit my past and be engulfed by its vitriolic sheen. Why do it now? For the sake of what, you might ask. Why do I have to read about your torn childhood, your sorrow, your little smile? Well, you don’t. You are right, you don’t. Maybe there is not enough pride in my profession. In the profession, I don’t have, I should say. Maybe the plumber was right, and I should get myself together and summon a little strength to hit you in your guts. But not in the same spot as that would build resilience. No, they must come from different directions, aim at different wounds. Like the death of a relative, or a petty little pet. Maybe a decisive illness, some rotting, pestilent feet. Don’t forget the sexual expenditure, but that we had already. A little treacherous intrigue, some friends that stab you in the back, stealing your precious thoughts. Maybe the conundrum of a life without any substantial ties, to the land, the blood, the customs. Or the opposite, for that seems profoundly popular, despite –or maybe due to– its profanity. As I was sitting there, I realized that my life will never house such intricacies. The broken vessel I am, will never hold the content it consumes. Maybe that was the reason for my swollen belly. Maybe that is why I always had to demand another serving. For fear of immediately losing that which is supposed to stay with me. At least until I am ready to part ways. At least until I extracted a little nourishment and am ready to discard the remainders behind the house.

My incontinence. That is where we are. Yes, I always had trouble holding that which is supposed to be held. At least held for a little, for, eventually, they let it all go. Earlier or later, they let it all go. But my patience, oh that riddled something which never pays me a visit. The absence of my patience never allowed me to retain what shall be retained, and thus I made sure to provide enough. For I mustered that if the passage through my frail body is quick, I should at least assure that it is enough volume. One day, I will relocate my meals to the toilet, and it will be a hasty thing. Efficient, you might say. Intriguing how little my body processes these meals. The color at the entrance, the colour at the exit, they are not too different. As if I were told that I can try again. Swallow once more and my efforts will double. Maybe then we make it, make it into the brown worm that is indicative of a healthy gut. But no, we have not yet reached shit, excrement. No, for the faecal matter, you have to wait a little more. My mother made sure that I received a fine upbringing and thus, from my early days, she ascertained that I didn't mention the delicate topics too early.

The faeces have to wait, she said. They have to wait until your friendships flower, until your friends embrace you, or at least put up with you. If you never spare them your details, they will run and will leave you in their dust. My mother made sure that I understand how one has to communicate. Thus, in fine remembrance of these lasting lessons, I will wait until we are properly acquainted, until I disclose, with all due respect, which precautions must be undertaken until I can take a proper dump. And then again, maybe it is only metaphoric. Probably you wait for the savoury morsel, and you realize that there is nothing of the sort. That this dubious figure is lying, that it guides you under false pretence. And then, once you spend a significant amount of time following that fool around, you realize that we are not talking about soaring profanities, about vulgar coquetry which has not left its infant stage.

You realize that the incontinence involved is much worse. That it refers to what is commonly perceived as memory. The fragments which form you, which you keep to yourself, or share sometimes, to convince a lover, to induce compassion, to bribe the accomplice, to drown yourself. These memories trickle out of me. Oh, how I marvel when someone narrates from a healthy life. One leads to the other. Without faltering, without the occasional stutter, life turns into a beautifully coherent worm. No diarrhoea, only the integrity of a healthy excess, carefully planned, preciously heeded. There he is, that little brag, sitting and wanting nothing from life. How could I want this thing or that lesson? When all I needed was the precious little trickle of existence. Sure, a little more privacy, a little less stagnancy, a little more fluidity of the monetary sort. None of these things would have been misplaced to lend that life of mine a little decor. But it shall not matter. Some depth might be acquired in other ways. Like this tree, this shrub, this piece of wrinkled wood. Time, nothing but time, battered its skin. One fine day, I thought, one fine day I will become complacent, I will ignore all I am told and in this very ignorance, this small little bud, will flower. It will turn into something that no one understands. Something that people will try to extinguish like some parasite.

While looking down into town, I had to concede that life must be a busy thing. In the morning, smoke would billow from the huts. Coffee was cooked, strong breakfasts were relinquished. Not before long, the decent townsfolk would leave their dwelling. The female had to stay while the burly male was too busy to garnish his wife with a kiss; preferring to resort to the concubine, he left, fixing his eyes on the path beyond. Every now and then the hand would rise, lifting a hat from a bald head. The neighbours had to be greeted. Hating them, but greeting, that is how the rural conserves its integrity. If you don’t even lift the hat, you might as well go to the city. Rushing to work while busily checking one’s provision, one's hat, one's integrity.

As always, the sandwich seemed a little skimpy and one could not wait to return home, to throw insults at one’s wife. Busy as one is, at least lunch should be something memorable. Repetitive drudgery should be specked with the slightest euphoria, induced by a carefully crafted sandwich. But no. All you get are some filthy layers, indiscernible in their grey appeal, wedged between two hunks of disintegrating bread. Oh, what a blasphemy! Your colleagues feast on their mounds of delicacies, and all you do is stuff your face with that malicious shit. After almost choking on one’s lunch, it seems luxurious, almost lavish, to return to work. During the short breaks, you exchange the latest news. They consist of the acquisition of animals, the influx of foreigners, and several ways of forgetting one’s wife. And then, if you weren’t already tired enough, the factory’s foreman tries to subdue you, to ask for a little discipline and reinforced effort. And as you are hardly able to express your virility, as tamed as you are in that factory, it must be at home that the dishes fly, the punches hail. Ah, yes. I assume that such scenes are not strictly provincial occurrences. But sitting there, I could not help but record the ingrate beauty of that little town.

Apart from these scenes, my youth appears empty. Going to school mostly consisted of dodging. Evading questions, insults, savagery. Today it seems as if one fine day I was too old for all of that. Old I was always, doubtlessly. But eventually, having grown too old, for there is a difference between the former and the latter, I just left. Left the village, the school, my mother. And ever since, it seems as if I would house in a dreary recollection of these few moments. Sure, they provide enough. Continuously disassembled, just to turn them into another faltering ramshackle; they do provide enough. Like this one day that I closely inspected my body. Lying beneath my sheets, I started with my crooked feet. Slowly, and diligently, I worked my way towards my bosom. I was engulfed in the complexity of that petty mass. Maybe it was too intense of a perusal. That night, I had to concede that it was not my body. But as I had no other, I accepted that I would need to put up with it. Until I find a new one, until I leave it behind, or until I reassemble. Nothing is assured. No.

The flux of time never spared me. One moment I appreciated this or that. The next, I could not help but complain, and regard the previous moment as the confirmation of everything that damned me. The next, I forgot the entire conundrum and floated in the beauty of forgetting. Complexities aside, you already know that I am a simple fool. Sure, the longer I think, the more I realize that I am inflating it a little. Here and there, I add some décor. Some frosting. And you, you are ready to conquer the cake only to realize that, below these layers of indulgence, it is more stool you encounter.

But please, I don’t seek to mislead you. All I say is that my past sometimes sparks lucidly, but it does so only to disguise that you can shade the greatest misdemeanor in bright hues. Does it matter after all? Does it matter that I am not I? That my body is not mine? That my mind tricks me? That I have no friends? Does it matter that I should have stopped a while ago, but that I continue because there is no merit in stopping? Does it matter that I don’t possess the analytic capability to discern the difference between one, the other? Between savagery, nobility? Between the telltale and the trivial? Well, you see, I don’t inflate anything. I am no sales clerk. Eventually, I will find my way. Not because you generously guided me, no, but because I made up my mind, pondered where it is that I should go, what it is that I shall achieve. Nothing of that sort, we can deduce from my childhood. For a child, I must have been, one day. Otherwise, it would not have been a pretty sight for my mother, this mass of mine, crashing to the ground. I am irritated too. Before I recapitulated these few redundancies, I thought that we might derive true benefit from them. And here we are, nothing of that sort. I am as lost as before. Or lost I am not, for that would require some purpose, some direction. And for that, I am still searching, about that I am still thinking.

Beautiful how climbers sanctify the ascent. All furnished with the most precious of specialized gear, they pack their few things, shoulder them, and they embark on their path. Towards the top. And after they have sufficiently suffered, after they had their precious moments in which they could not think because their body was screaming for reprieve, thereafter, they made it. Look: how small everything is. How far we have come. And then you ingest some snacks, which are to provide sufficient strength to descend.

In such a scenario, I would roll myself into an uneven ball and I would tumble down. No use in stopping me, I have done this before. Probably I am missing some hidden truth. Yes, the sprawling beauty of the hike escapes me. I have been told this before. The path, my friend. The path is the goal. But why reach the peak then? Having exhausted your fumes, it should be time to go. But no, you prefer the top, and that is where we are different. Ah yes, stay on top of things. Don’t let them consume you. How one thing is related to the other. Odd. I don’t seek to climb anything. And it is not because of the effort. No, lazy I am not. Neither do I seek to excavate. You see, as my childhood was no use in understanding myself, my impulses, desires, and hazardous mannerisms, we should maybe think about the peak of life. After which everything can only go downhill. And as I told you, the descent is never the problem. No, I am the first one to throw myself into the pit, to plunge down the hill, to falter.

Yes, that seems promising. The crest of life. Only where to locate it, that escapes me. Shouldn’t it be something memorable, easily discernible, plain? Does the absence of a summit imply anything? Maybe we will eventually find it. Hidden behind my attempts to occult this and that, there might be some Arcadian splendour. My mother never had any high hopes. As long as I am sated, she said, I can be out and about. Pace yourself, she said; otherwise you will never be able to plough through the obstacles you will encounter. Life won’t be easy, she said. But it shall not matter, she said, nothing is. And if everything is hard, nothing is. Wise she was, my mother. She never expected anything. Unlike me, I still try to wring some meaning from this wet towel. And I achieve nothing but an abominable trickle, too sparse to let anything blossom. Where do these images come from? Who knows. We have come so far, and we are where we started. I only wanted to tell you how things must embark. And in the process, I did let myself go a little too far.

You know, the bread is not enough, after all. We also need some depth, some ominous murmur. The floundering stutter of existence. Like the one my lice exude. No matter if we talk about the pubic sort, or the ones that prefer the belfry. On my lice I can count. Wondrous thing how they thrive on my skull, notwithstanding its horrendous absence of hair. And about my pubic hair, we shall not talk. Not that I counted it, but it seems sparse too. The little hair I have seems to be enough, to hold on to. I understand that, or so I think. I don’t need much, either. But a little more. A little more than just the bread might in fact be necessary. Who knows, the lice might have their chit-chat as well. Sometimes, at night, or shortly before I fall asleep, I am sure that there is something to discern. What exactly it is that I hear, shall not preoccupy us. For me, it is enough to know that I am not alone. Those critters can stay if it pleases them. Initially, for the purpose of personal cleanliness, of a good rapport, I tried to remove them. To banish them to wherever they came from. But that is no simple task. First, you want to establish where they are from. How are they to be brought back, otherwise? Second, once this is ascertained, you need to purge them. Extreme heat, or cold, will do. Needless to add, I never reached the second stage. Discerning heritage is nothing for me. I know, the question of origin, the conundrum of belonging is a popular thing. But not for me. Stay where you are. Stay where you have come to. Or leave any of these places. I don’t mind. 

And as we already reached my childhood, I failed to mention my siblings. Not to say that there were some, but I would have liked them to be available. It must be less alone, I fathomed. In the dark of my stale corner, it dawned on me that, in their presence, great feats would be possible. My mother, naturally, ignored my bragging. I asked for siblings, but acquired none. The impression must be quite idyllic. A ramshackle hut, isolated from the boom and bust of town. Even a small river to divert oneself. A tree, strategically positioned to see without being seen. What else could you want? Much, I surmise. A few books would have been a generous addition. But I was never much of a reader. Narration frightens me. All these suggestive things, they take their toll. The appeal might be obvious, forgetting must be easy, lost in the thicket of words. Opening a book, what a reckless act. The few days I was in school, we recapitulated a popular tale. Apparently, it had some pedagogic value; otherwise, I cannot infer the peculiar choice of that fabrication. Be it as it may, I have never forgotten any of its loathsome turns, its forlorn surprises, its putrid morale. It shall not matter which tale it was. And if I knew the name, I surely wouldn’t mention it. What is there to say, we all need some structure to tie ourselves to. Maybe that’s why I am such an evasive fool.

Anyway, I would like to revisit my mother, but all I can do is to visit her grave. You would think that such a site offers the peaceful slumber of remembrance. No, nothing of that sort. Only recently, when I had my random visit, I witnessed the removal of her remains. Briefly, I tried what must have come quite close to a protest. Raising my feeble voice, I implored them to stop. Citing some commonplace I heard at mass, I demanded respect for the past ones. How come that the final rest is interrupted by such lunacy, I cried. Placidly, an obese fellow gestured towards a man in some noble attire. He must have been related to a church, I assumed. While the suited honourable stalked towards me, his stooge continued his mission. In a wide arch, the shovel of some hefty machinery came crashing down. It split my mother’s tombstone in two. I was told that it is the priest I am talking to. His lips shuddered a little, for he must have been disconcerted. What a trifle, is it not? He said. As the mind has ascended already, the removal of the remains is but a minor bureaucratic task. That is what he said, while I watched my mother’s pelvis, dangling from the scraps of some rustic skirt. The shovel quivered left and right as it dishevelled the grave.

Of course, the pastor said. Of course, if one pays generously, such babble isn’t needed. We have plenty of room, but it costs. And the next ones are waiting, he said, while gesturing towards a deranged band of relatives, bemoaning the fallen. My sheep are dying like flies. And I as the shepherd, I must assure that their final reckoning is but a soft landing. I do my best, he said, while looking particularly demented. Maybe his bowel is cramping, I thought. All that moaning must take its toll on the digestive tract. Maybe that honorable cleric expected me to hand him some coins. And briefly, I must have thought that this might be my mother’s salvation. But as I peered towards the ransacked grave, I thought that all had been said and done. The pastor was running out of patience, it seemed. You see, you are a fine, honorable lad, but I worry that there is little I can do for you. I told you: your mother is in good hands. No need to worry about an unearthed grave. We do this every day, and never have we come across an irreverent frame, holding tight to its soul. No, that we have not, he said. The cramps must be of the obstinate sort, I thought. While the preacher was talking, he rocked slightly up and down, as to prevent his rear from leaking. I, meanwhile, extended my finger and burrowed a little in my nose. What exaltation, what pleasure, derives from poking one’s snout. As I was standing there, unsure if I should leave, with my finger buried in my nose, the preacher must have become somewhat indolent. How come that such an infidel trespasses during my scheduled defecation, I have never seen him in my church, he must have thought. Standing there with no money, his finger in his nose. What next, is he going to eat his secretions? And I must have heard his thoughts, for I indeed succumbed to the pleasure of allowing myself a little morsel from my miring nose.

The pleasure was short-lived. And good that it was, for that matter. What would indulgence be if its rudimentary presence forced itself upon me, less scarcely than it does. I cannot quite surmise the irritation that would result thereof. And the preacher was wrong. Indeed, I sat in that church more than once. Who knows what dragged me there, I do not. I solely remember the obnoxious smell that exuded from the elderly. In the heat of summer, an aged lady was sitting in front of me, carpeted in a robust fur. That must have been her most honorable garb. And that poor hag panted heavily. From her hat dangled some lavender sprigs, she must have used to keep the moths in check. Sunken on my bench, I dozed off a little, only to awake during the Eucharist. Eat from my flesh, the priest said.

And upon the mention of bread, my poor little heart must have fatigued itself quite a bit. I understood that we were supposed to line up. There was the mention of wine, but I did not fancy any drink. In front of me, a jittery peon took a healthy jug from his flask. Apparently, he was as nervous as I. And then, finally, when my turn arrived, I received the flimsy wafer that is supposed to represent some flesh. Transfixed, I must have been standing there. And it took my successor to remove me with a decided shove. I put the wafer in my pocket and lined up again. As this must have been some sacrilege, I was unable to discern, some stronger believers than myself removed me. There I was, with that contemptible wafer, oblivious why I attended and what it is that I should have distilled. But it shall not matter, I thought. For the other sheep seemed all set to turn that Sunday into a memorable feat.

It did not take long for the bottles to fly, and for the haze of intoxication to settle. The priest might have known me, or he might not. As I am not well-informed regarding the intricate economy that decides upon the duration and the purview of his rule, he could have been long gone. I stood there, thinking about my past, my finger locked neatly in my nose, and the priest must have come close to immolating his oath. Anyways, where are we? Yes, I tried to pledge for decency but as I am not quite acquainted with that concept, there was little I achieved. Some winds escaped the priest and we both were unsure how to react. He, for he considered such ventilation an indecency; me, for I was clueless how to assure my mother’s rest.

That is some strong gas, I said, trying to congratulate him for his assiduous bowel. He must have mistaken this for some irreverent coarseness, as he turned worryingly red. Clueless as most often, I did not suspect that he didn’t share my appreciation for such vapours. And how should he? I, too, was most frequently surprised by my incontinence. If I had released such winds, my pants would now require new lining. Such must have been an unprecedented situation. The honourable priest, economizing, farting and unsure how to escape such a conundrum. I sought to help him, but there was little I could do. All I wanted was to visit my mother, only to find myself in such a tender exchange.

Trying to defuse the situation, I asked him about the weather. What a fine day it is, to bury the deceased, and to unearth the ascended. That, or something similar, I must have said. Which weather is preferable for such a task? I presume the earth must be pliable. Not too boggy and not too dry. Ah, yes. Our fine chatter must have ended around that time. You see, I was always a little incapable of engaging in this type of exchange. Probably, it would be implied to first establish some common ground before one targets the hearty matters. Otherwise, one might risk being a little offensive. And this is surely the last result I seek to summon. Be it as it may, easy to tell that I failed to convince, both the priest, and myself. Nevertheless, everything seemed quite intact. And thus, I congratulated myself for such fine skill.

What a Sunday that was! Intrigued, as a child, by the exquisite frugality of that wafer; much older, but still intrigued, by the ingenuity of that businessman. But why do I recount this? It shall not matter where my mother lies. On that day, I acquired some of her bones and ever since they are part of my priced selection of trinkets. I must say, I feel as close as ever. And again, we shall postpone the recapitulation of all that I hold in store. Sure, we could do it now, and it would be a beautiful transition. Full of literary bravado. But no, at the moment, I can’t provide that. And why should I? Don’t muddy the clean sheets, as my mother used to say.

Sometimes, I try to furrow through my mind. Left and right wreckage piles, but my father is not to be seen. Ha! There we have it, you must think. That brag just missed the iron fist and that’s why he, she, is such a drag. Maybe that is the case, but neither you, nor I, are bound to find out. Well, well, maybe later. Don’t rubbish your plate in one gulp, as my mother used to say. Why such wisdom? Dabble a little here, and there. No, that is not what’s happening. You must think that I have quite an ingenious plan. That I peculiarly crafted the abyss and the pinnacle.

Nothing of that sort. I, too, would prefer such predilection for the linear. Like these forms, they distribute to assess your height, your weight, your intake.  And then, after some mathematical trickery, you are awarded a single figure which is to indicate your physical integrity. Ah, how beautiful to remove all the dirt from my dustbin. Remarkable, it would be to store a little less paraphernalia in my decrepit head, but that is not how it works, I surmise. No, that is not it. And yes, I used to blast through my mind. Not that I didn’t heed the need for mental integrity, as they say. But the emptiness which ensues from such a vacuum clean, is quite untenable. May the wind blow through my brains. Yes, come in, here, I open both my ears, come in and out and we both will be relieved. So I thought. Or so you think. At least before you are engulfed by the rancid panic of emptiness.

Where is the plan then? There is none. By now, you should have learned to appreciate my incapability of crafting such ingenious succession. First, this, second, that. And at last, explosion, fanfare, climax. What would I do to deliver such a story? Little, I guess. which is already a lot if we start counting from the negative. Below zero. Can’t there be a plan in the absence of a plan? That is the type of question that tingles my taste buds. And these are blunt. How should they be otherwise? If you solely bombard them with the stale gusto of aged bread. Bread and games, that is how you please the masses. Which is not me. I am of considerable mass, yes. But most often, when I try to accord with the needs of disputation, friendship, love, I only get the feeling that it is the distance that is preferred. Of course, I am referring to the distance between me and you. It should be large, the more, the merrier. Ah, what thrill is to be derived from such a simple formula, but the result is uncomfortable; I don’t fool myself. You can stay. And I, I should leave. At least to the other side of the road. And if it is out of sight, even better. The merriest, so to speak. But now that we come to speak of it, I should probably consider drafting my advances. I should transparently outline where it is that we go, where we depart from, and what it is that lies between. I’ll take a large piece of paper. As large as they possibly get. And on it, I will draft this and that.

This repercussion and that masturbation. It will be difficult and draining. Difficult, due to the sheer size of that paper. And draining because there is much that I need to vomit. I forgot to mention, it all needs to be inspected from a distance. Here, the distance between me and you will come in handy. I mean the distance which separates me from everything. That is nothing remarkable, you might say, and I agree. I have been transparent about that. At least about something. Not guilty as charged, but how will I go about it? I will find a spot which is well removed. Preferably some shrub in which I can squat. Through its thorns, nothing stops me from inspecting the mess I have procured. This distance must be the secret ingredient. Removed from the stench that is my own making, I can inspect that crap as if it weren’t mine. I might even break one of the shrub’s branches and use it to poke in that turd of yours. Positive, that is some fine excrement. Maybe I will smell a little on that stick, and it will deliver a detailed impression.

As a further precaution, I will leave it all behind. After some months, I might return. Then, it is of utmost importance to probe if there is still some virulence in that aged mess. Who knows? Maybe the wounds have healed since then. If I assure that the latter is not the case, I proceed to order, to classify, to refine. In the end, I should have a proper plan. A taxonomy. It will cautiously list the features of my opponents, it will register their dirty mishaps. And it is the latter that I will exploit. To impress you, and mostly myself. Ah, beautiful, how I circulate around the emptiness I hold in store. Like we do, around the sun, as I am told. Until the sun consumes us. Or we ourselves, which probably happens before. But who am I to provide guidance? No, for such matters, others must be consulted. I only tried to outline how it is that this entire enigma needs to be sketched. And in the process, I need to concede that this is nothing for me. You do you, as they say. I do I.

Prolific you are. No easy interlocutor, no, not like myself. I take everything. And when I engage in one of these disputes, I swallow it all. No resistance, no hostility. I swallow all the insults I toss at myself. No punch is mean enough, my bile takes no prisoners. After having crafted such an ingenious system, what is left but to ask if I am happy? Facing the tremor of such a question, I cannot but remain unsettled. I must have heard that question before but where, when and why, escapes my memory. But shall it matter? No, it shall not. What are we looking for? Elation, ecstasy, contentment? Or is it the absence of all of these? Or exactly the opposite: the want of sorrow, a pustule on one’s bottom, or the dismal, the bitter? What a mess we procured. Finally, I was convinced to craft a story, and all I receive is the immeasurable depth of such a simple inquiry.

Are you happy, Mrs. Mishap? Are you happy, Mr. Moron? Well, maybe. If you could provide a clue regarding the expanses of the question? Just a little reminder which is to guide me through the thicket; no? Well, let me see. Here I am. Which is already much. More than I can bear sometimes. But that was not your question. Are you? I am. Which is to say, I am not not. Or at least, not yet. And I don’t intend to speed things up on that front. But that, again, you did not question. Happy? What a steep path. It must have been ages that I did sweat such a healthy amount. Now the water pours out of my pits. The water pours out of my eyes. I can hardly discern it all. And yet, I am no closer. I am. Not sick, not particularly healthy. I am in fine order. If order indicates enduring the complacent ticking of an obnoxious watch, one that prevents your much-needed rest. I think that we have come quite far. We established my existence, but haven’t yet unearthed the sought predicament. I am, and this I share with this or that infection. And if you ask me, which you did, although you sought a different answer, the living does already suffice. Maybe I should be a little more precise, though. I live, and the living is enough. At least for me. If there would be more to it, I guess I would be overwhelmed.

But you haven’t lived, that’s what you might have indicated. That’s what you have hidden, under the friendly pretence of your monstrous question. Get out of your seat and live. Impregnate or become pregnant, with meaning, life, and diligent intention. Sow some offspring to command it around. To see it thrive, suffer, learn. To assist you in this wretched perusal.

Get off your fat rectum and stop pretending. Smash some bones, earn a living and disguise it all. Cut throats, but don’t let yourself be seen. Drive a vehicle without a windscreen. Let the wind batter your eyes until you can’t assess your speed. Dodge an accident and retrieve how precious it all is. Are you happy? Hm. I don’t know. But it is not that I don’t know because I couldn’t potentially know. No, for once, it is not my debility that can be accused. The simple move is not permitted. Don’t ask that half-wit. It is rather that I don’t know because the expanses of your question escape me. Are you a plant? As if, one fine morning, I would limp along a pretty road and ask the lilac how it is, to flower. As if I would peruse my groin and ask it how it is, to be an entrance, and an exit. Yes, these questions are horrendous. Seldom that I affirm anything. But the latter can be affirmed. These questions will cost me the last hair that I heed. I will need to retreat until I understand. But probably, there is nothing to understand and all I should have said was yes all along, or no, depending on the situation.

If my mother asks me, yes. The doctor, yes. The vendor, no. You, no. Or you, yes. Depending on your demeanor. Dependent: if you listen or solely seek to smack my head. Or to please yourself. And as you seem to be a kind fellow. I can now formally declare I don’t understand, but a yes still seems appropriate. A yes allows me to contain that question. To banish it. Lock it up in an innermost region that I never consult. Or hardly. Maybe, you did this on purpose. Knowing all along that such a question will unsettle my dilapidated balance. What can I do? First, let’s assume that I ingest all of this eagerly. Like I always do, swallow with skin and bones. Second, we hypothetically surmise that there is still some spare room in this convoluted mass of mine. Let’s assume I can store that question. Postpone an answer. But what if you have infected me already? There I go, thinking that I properly cooped it up, that it now dwells, somewhere in me, with all the other confusing queries– how are you? Who? I guess that was the third assumption. Please excuse me, the purpose of lists escapes me.

Yes, with all due care I have locked it up. The keys have been tossed away. There I sit, in my tatters, after my promenade, and something seems odd. Like a pear that has ripened a little too long, that has become a little alcoholic. There I sit, and the rumour becomes a bit unbearable. Gases gather, and I do my utmost to release them. Nothing will leave, which is not unusual. However, and this is no minor trifle- in this case, it would be essential to release them. Something seems to proliferate and burst me from the inside.

What can I do? Ignorance, my dear friend, assist me in my darkest hour. My belly, always bloated, doubles in size. Maybe I am pregnant, after all. But no, that cannot be. We have already announced that my sexual expenses are little. And what would I do with reproduction? Doubling the commotion would be insufferable. Or maybe I could halve it thereby? But that shall not occupy us. A task for another day. I tremble and if it does not seek to escape me from behind, I should probably regurgitate. Come, I say, you can go now. No need to be ashamed. But nothing happens. The sensation endures, and all the things I need to drag along have acquired an unlikely addition. They seem to demand a reassessment. Things have changed, they say. Imploring me to acknowledge their needs, they seem to have formed a committee. Look, they say, now that happiness resides among us, you should be less of a drag. You should be less of a hindrance, and you should give way to our rule. Be the vessel, they say, for our dominion.

And I must say, I am a bit confused. I am no longer needed, that’s what I am told. That’s what you are telling yourself, you fool, so you must think. And no, I say. That’s what I am told by myself. Which is to say that this is what I think. Which is to say, that’s what my sentiments command. And I had them in check. Before, I could gladly ignore them. Sometimes I would peer through the bars of their cell and laugh at their indolent existence. Ha-ha, for that must be what a laugh is, ha-ha, you stay there and leave me alone. But suddenly, we are faced with a prison riot. Suddenly, I am no longer the illiterate monarch of my inner expanses. Now, things turn upside down. And if before I was unable to discern anything, now I am all the less capable of trusting my gut. But why shall that be needed? The riddled vase I am, now has another outlet. What a fine sight. Whatever you pour in, be sure to receive it right back. It must be said, I am a bit tired now. Exhausted, outspent. I have been conquered. I resign. Here you have the keys. There is the bed and the fridge. Be my guest. Share my clothes, my dustbin, my happiness.

Where to turn from here? Well, we barely know each other. It seems premature to depart towards our honeymoon. I am unmarried, yes. You can be my partner if you so desire. But wait, I do have a spouse. We are not married, but acquainted we are. Know each other, as much as there is to know. Can I have a kiss? No, that you cannot. I just disclosed that there is a partner somewhere. That somewhere in my life something waits for me, and all you do is to ask for a kiss. Indecent, shallow, rude. But why talk about marriage? I have no understanding of that. Exchange a womb, liquids, riches. Tie them together through a vow, a ring, an everlasting promise. Confusing, expansive, terrifying. And yes, I would tie myself to the next best post if I had a rope to spare. Upright, for the first time. What a thought. Filthy.

Here we are. Unmarried. Mired in dirt, excrement, confusion. These might just be the secret ingredients of such a pact. Unified in the darkest moment, torn through the loftiest elation. What a simple matter. And god as the witness. With a capital G, I am told. Just like this I, this G is to be capitalized. To be exhausted, to be outspent. God, tiring. God, where are you when I ask for everything, when I ask for nothing? Nowhere, of course. Nowhere, and thus everywhere. What a commonplace. Like the gadfly, you seek to expunge. Like the everlasting itch of a sore pustule. Like the depths of my throat. Analogy. That is what I should evade. What a ridiculous literary tool. This is like that. And because of this shortcut, you surely know what I am talking about. Citing imagery, smells, ethereal melodies. And because I conjure them through the mighty wizardry of my floundering prose, you even feel confirmed in your conviction. What a fine text this is. What mastery to turn nothing into something. To sell crap for gold. Water for wine. And yes, at some point, we might even traverse water. It will be more of a swamp than a sea, but we shall not be overtly squeamish. We will traverse, not part. And we will decide against inundating our enemies. Against drowning, for after all, we have no enemies to spare. And I might need to remind you, that, for once, I was open, explicit, about something. The parting is to be left to others.

You can have the upper hand. The discriminatory practice. The court, the hammer, the bars. I prefer to leave before you declare the verdict. But rest assured, until you are ready to lock me up, I will have done my utmost to declare what there is to declare. I will have aired my innards, and we can both think about a fresh start. Somewhere different, somewhere new. I am sorry, but faith is not my guiding thread. Fate, its close relative, tends to explain more, to direct me, without my knowing. And after the latest failure, I have a simple explanation. Ah, yes, it was destined to be. That is why you step on my toes, why I fill my plate with your crumbs, why I am the ugly wretch that I am. Destined it was. By what kind of predilection, I know not. But we can consult the teacup, the tossed bones. And yes, I must say, I am interested in the ossified. Intrigued by the immobility by which I am overcome. Destiny shall be chosen. After all, there is no litany to remember, no flesh to be torn, no sins to be declared, no benediction to be sought, no, there is only acceptance, of what it is that shall lie ahead, of what it is that I shall lie on, of the redundant lies from which I assemble my life. Yes, if I have to select something, I will elect destiny.

And I know, this is not how a myth is supposed to function. But these technicalities are to be left to others, to the specialists, the sages, and their consorts. If I perceive it from a different angle, my life would be quite suited for plumbing the depths of existence. Yes, the mysterious hue of a rat-infested well. The simplicity of the cave-dweller. No wonder that from such vantage points, the complexities of a torn life must seem unremarkable, candid even. But no, I am no simple soul. Certainly, my temptations are myopic. They only tend to the immediate. But does that render them less virulent, pressing, frantic? I think not. Be that as it may, it almost seems normal. Walking through this splendid park, setting one foot in front of the other: the right one, always following my impulse, the left one ailing, vagrant, lazy. Almost overcoming my despicable tread, I wade my way through the promenading crowd. What a life it must be, being able to idle, without direction, without need. That is precisely what I do, you must think.

How have we arrived here? I know not. But shall it matter? Do I ask you why you parade below the shade of the trees? I don’t. I think it has become overtly explicit that the purpose of such questions escapes me. Not that I ignore them, not that I would not try. Here I am, a degenerate specimen, dressed in the most suitable attire. Here you are, unexpecting, slack as one can be on such a particular day, allotted to relaxation. Maybe I might even sit a little. If I find an unoccupied bench, I might sit and wonder how it is that such a situation can be sustained. What a vista! Unceasingly, the sea batters the cliffs, leaving patiently crafted formations behind. How sublime! That is what I would think, if I could discern such matters. But as I cannot, I sit there, and the waves come crashing. With an honest effort, they throw themselves against the rocks and gush in a myriad of directions. Complacent, they seem to accept the commotion. And I? Well, I cannot escape my stupor. No clue how to mediate the delicate balance between involvement and ignorance. Soon. The force of the scenery becomes overwhelming. I let my eyes wander, wobble from one passer-by to the next. I am careful not to stop for too long. We have heard that already. Stare too long and you will be swiftly reproached.

Here are the handcuffs, here is my fist. Get lost or we lock you up. I know not where, but we will find the innermost cell, where not the slightest ray of light will lighten your fat face. That escalated quickly. To prevent such commotion, I always count a little, when my glance stops at a particular scene. While I peruse the respective object, I count a little. And once I surmise that now it has been much that has been counted, I rush onwards. There they go, my eyes. Eager for their next adventure. And all of that to prevent me from thinking, to prevent me from being consumed by the reckless beauty of it all. How am I to enjoy such a day? Look. How elated the toddler who cannot but scream to communicate. Look. The dog, who cannot but relieve the bladder to mark the precipice of its existence. Look. The usual man, arm in arm with a partner, but restlessly measuring the alternatives, continuously assessing what one loses, through the slightest commitment. Look. The butterfly, ruler of the day. Look. The dying moth, remnant of the night.

And why the sea? Equally well, we could have chosen the autumnal procession of colours. I could have resorted to the tree of my childhood. I could have, yes. I heed it well, somewhere in an innermost niche, removed from the turbulence of survival. We would have encountered colours of an undecipherable intensity. And every passing day would be a testimony to the complexity of growth, to the immeasurability of a life which is outside of mine. Or rather, such a portrayal would have been a preparation for the cold solitude of the coming months. The sugar is drained from the fibres. And somehow, how exactly escapes my cognition, this passage of the sweet sap of life transmutes the leaves into marvellous gestures from another world.

Gestures which permit every colour, which refrain from uniformity, which count difference as a feature of greatest fecundity. And bright they were, these leaves. Bright as my nose when the sting of the cold has swollen it. And for some peculiar reason, this tree of my long-lost past, has always been the first in line. The others, neatly lined up in alleys which courted the village, these others were still sparkling in their lavish green. They gestured promiscuously, the tinctures of the juvenile still radiating. And the tree of mine could not help but to insist on its premature departure. If I had possessed books, I would have gathered some leaves and stored them between the words. Then, late in life, I would have removed them, and the colours would have jumped at me. Without respect for the elderly, they would have claimed attention. And yes, certainly, with all due attention I would peruse these colours only to share them with you, or myself, which shall amount to the same. Yes, we could have chosen other scenes. Why the sea, then? Well, I know not. Only that I feel drawn to it. If, for some peculiar reason, I am forced to end my life. I will walk into the great flow of this wondrous mouth. They told me that it connects us all. They informed me that it characterizes us. They? Who exactly I know not.

It would be no difficulty to assess who it was. After all, there are very few that talk to me. But I have no interest in such matters, and my interest is a delicate thing. I need to soothe it, follow it around. I fear that one day it will suspend its services. And then what? Then I will continue reeling about, stumbling upon my own feet. I will still do all I need to sustain this reckless existence of mine. But it will be a stale endeavour. And eventually if that shall be it, the sea, my dear relative, will assist me. And who knows, maybe the end will be a beginning, perhaps I will thereafter live among all these creatures which escape my imagination. I only hope that they won’t banish me into the depths, where nothing is to be seen, discerned, surmised. Or why not? It would not be different at all. No, if I think of it, it would be like it is now. Maybe I should interview the doctor about the intricacies of gills, fins, and a life under high pressure. Particularly, the latter is a familiar condition. But be my guest, you don’t need me to understand that. I handed you the keys already, so why do I still insist on continuing? I know not and cannot help.

Something drives me, or I drive it. And yes, it is frightening. Terribly so. But fear is a necessary feature, that I was told. It is programmed into my cranium, as the doctor said. I asked him to remove the indicated section, but he declared that the lobotomy is a thing of the past. Unfortunately so. I am a great proponent of such measures, he said. I don’t know why, but this thought produced a bright smile on his face. Now that I come to think of it, he said, we might eventually be able to draft a contract which would allow you your cerebral shrinkage, and which would permit me to demonstrate my scientific virtuosity. That day, the secretary stormed into the surgery to declare a medical emergency in the waiting room. Thereafter, this peculiar agreement was never mentioned again. You might think that such an idea expresses audacious trust in the medicinal craft. And I must say, you are quite right. But then again, such trust seems to be commonplace. And I cannot think of anything more common than myself.

Speaking of trust, I must say that upon further consideration, it seems quite misleading to assume that I possess something of that sort. Least of all in myself. I am not to be trusted. Some lawns, in a neighbourhood of my past, had these imposing declarations, mounted on sticks. Beware of the dog. Don’t trust the stranger. I don’t vote. My love is my land. Finally, I have found my own declaration. And in the unlikely case of one day owning something, I will mount the following: I am not to be trusted. Who knows where these placards are to be acquired and who knows if the declarations are to be chosen, or if they are solely prefabricated. Maybe I can choose my own wording. I know not, and shall never know. I am not to be trusted. If it won’t mark the perimeter of my property, it might be a suitable epitaph on my grave. But who knows, maybe I won’t own a gravestone. Such things are fleeting, as the priest diligently demonstrated.

I should get myself together, I know. Only a minute ago we talked about the pleasantries of the sea, the ephemeral colours of autumn. And again, I messed it up. First, via reference to the promising debilitation of brain-surgery. Secondly, via the daunting certainty of sustained poverty. Oh, how explicit. I am sure that you inferred all along. Or you didn’t, maybe you skipped some section in search of something more pliable, coherent. Searching for a decent narrative. And if you rushed through these passages and stopped here, I can tell you now it is time to move on. Nothing to be found here. But an honest effort, of course. As honest as I can be, under the pretence of a malicious intention. As trustworthy as something is, which affirms its own malady, which declares its credibility. Couldn’t all of this have been much easier? I could have chosen a little tale. I would have disclosed how a poor wretch stumbles from unease into debility. How love holds sway for a little while. How the wings of romance soothe an aching soul. And then I could have divested that fool of the sole thing that provided a remedy. Probably you would have applauded. But wait, that is not enough. We also need a setting. Sufficiently known, but also a little alien. It cannot be too close, and it can’t be vastly removed. Otherwise, there will be a lack of identification.

How terrible. Why would I read that? There is no guidance, no admonition, no uplifting sentiments from delving in the dirt. You would reproach me. I would craft a surprising twist. An ending which soothes the aching need for diversion, which leaves you unsettled, perplexed. And then, you would crave for more and I would bask in the glory. How is that to be done? I don’t know. Otherwise, I would have done it all along. First, I had to concede that there isn’t the slightest tendency which would foster the magnificent byways of a little tale. For long, I had been rummaging. In myself, of course. And as we witnessed, I encountered little. I could not bring myself to mobilize the necessary garnish. The web is insufficient. No food to be acquired, no price to be won. And all of this because I seem to harbour none of these things, from which stories are spun, worlds conquered. And it probably matters. This absence, I mean. This absence indicates that I am not to be heard.

Sure, I am a suitable specimen for all kinds of crafts that dedicate themselves to the flourishing, or at least the liveability, of our tiny little existence. But beware, don’t let that buffoon extrapolate from the hyperbolic idiosyncrasy that’s called self. No, that shall not happen. Unfortunately, it has already transpired and thus, henceforth, keeping these crucial considerations in mind, I will return to my vocation, and I will hide all of this under the carpet. You can move on. Nothing to be seen at this crime-scene. Yes, blood has been spilled, other liquids have been dispersed too, souls were maltreated, but that is nothing unusual. Not at all. Thus, please. Get going. Or no. I don’t beg your pardon. Now, I shall authoritatively decide. I shall part, divide and rule a little. Maybe I did this all along. I might have had a grandiloquent plan. And it is not that I didn’t disclose it. There was no reserve. We knew it all along. And nothing resulted thereof.

No plan. But if I consider it, by way of closing remarks, I must say that it seems pleasantly ingenious to have a plan in the absence of a plan: The plan of no-plan. And to commemorate such a great feat, I will therewith declare that plans shall be formulated according to the following principles: 1 Don’t tower your hazardous structure on an image of yourself. 2 If you do, despite the first principle, you have understood the purpose of these commandments. 3 As a result, the third principle shall be dedicated to a reprisal of the first. 4 Thanks to the third principle, you can construct your structure from everything you wish, including your own deficiency. 5 As the previous principle seems overly permissive, we shall contain such libertarian excess. Such a commandment seems evasive, evacuated of any concrete guidance. Yes, the fifth principle shall be empty. And eventually assist to arrive at number 10. 6 If you have nothing to declare, if your declaration is nothing but a malformed excavation of your derelict innards, you can progress to the next principle. Otherwise, you shall restart at number 1. 7 Don’t inflate yourself because there seems to be something worth declaring. Or if you do, be my guest. But if you do, you need to manufacture another list of commandments. Suitable tools/themes: Inscriptions in stones, a privileged connection with God (capital G). Alternatively, a magnanimous antichrist with a popular name. 8 I assume that only a very few have arrived here, if you have, congratulations. May you progress to the next commandment. May you be more fortunate than I am. Bestowed with many lists, much love and decency. 9 Tower your hazardous structure on the little you learned or unlearned. For the latter is an ingenious practice. 10 These commandments shall be taken for what they are. Empty but swollen. Crucial but blasphemous. Shallow but profound. What am I to do with that? You might ask. You are supposed to tell me something, you are not the one who is not to reflect how things are to be told. But you are to spit it out, vomit even. Yes, that’s who I am. A reflection.

A mirror. In which you can gaze at yourself. A mirror would already be gentle, for a mirror would indicate that you would pause a bit. To marvel at your visage, or to damn your morbid excesses. In any case, you would stop a little, and this would be my opening, my coming into the world. But that is not what I am granted. You look right through me, which is to say, I am transparent, or rather, mired in dirt. I am an opaque window. And, as we can infer, I have matured. Other than the evasive fool that I still am, I try to concede where my limits are, what I am. And I have prepared for such a long time. The secret might be to construct an inner fortress. In it, I imagine every possible disaster. As a preparatory regime, I paint these dramas in the brightest hues, the most terrible occurrences are locked up in the moist cells of this aged mess. And yes, I did my utmost to consider every possible scenario, I stored provisions too, to overcome one siege or another. Few are the moments in which I feel sufficiently prepared to brave the terrible sights of this secret vault. At first, the visits are tentative, reduced. After a certain while, you become complacent, you think you have seen the worst.

What else is there to come? All creative potential is summoned just to bestow these terrible specters with all the features they need. Take this phantom as an example, cowered in filthy linen, it hides in the uppermost corner of one of these cells. I take a little stone and toss it at the shivering ghost, terribly frightened, the thing tries to escape. Where are you going? I ask. You are my sorrow, my pain. There is nowhere to go. And I get no response. That thing I know sufficiently, I have spent a lot of time in that first cell. We are almost friends now. But further I cannot venture. Yes, I know what awaits me there, but I cannot bring myself to withstand these dreadful encounters. Naïve it seems, I muster these images after the most dreadful events, and for what? Well, my thoughts are simple, as they always are, I assume that I can sufficiently prepare myself, for everything that is to come. I have these images, and they seem quite close to the real thing, yes, they represent my nightmares, so to speak, or not so much, for sleep never pains me. They represent these waking atrocities that I am bound to confront one day. Is it the end that I dread? Yes, somewhere, the end is surely looked up. In these expansive dungeons, my end awaits me.

I could visit it. Maybe we could acquaint ourselves. I would familiarize myself with the likes and dislikes of the grand finality. Summoning the end: yes, that might be among the most frightening things. One day, I will send the vault doors flying; my friend, the ominous specter, will be the first to leave. And on its way out, all the cells will open, the doors will be wedged out of their frames, and all my dread will mingle into this giant monstrosity. It will have no decipherable form, no, only a menacing mess that inflicts everything with the nauseating stench of panic.

Initially, my plan seemed diligent, carefully calculated. I thought that such introspection might shield me from the imposing dread that lies ahead. And then, on that particular day, when the sky collapses, when everything that has been neatly ordered is smacked to the ground, shattered into myriad pieces, on that day, you realize that all such preparations are empty, that this thing you expected is tremendously different from the imagery you conjured in anticipation. 

Yes, I could send myself flying through that window, and it would be a suitable entrance. I would toss myself into the boardroom where decisions are made, heads are chopped. Here, I come, right through the window; don’t mind me, I am all right. Ah, that wound you mean? No worries, I have done this before, I will remove that shard and will remain perforated, incontinent. Here I am, I know, you did not invite me, but I learned that invitations are not to be sought: if you need something, snatch it. You should understand, shouldn’t you? Your craft is simple– take from others and cry: it is mine, it has been mine all along. Take that thing and turn one into two, multiplication, you say, is the secret ingredient. If it is exponential, even better. And it is not because your temptation is bottomless, no, it is because it is demanded by a certain hand, which is not mine, neither is it yours. This hand wants it, so, why not obey? Finally, I know where to hand my CV, where it is that I shall seek admission. As you understand so much about invisibility, you surely decipher my conundrum, oh, I am not asking for friendship, no, I used to try, but that is over now. As I am already here, uninvited, why not let me do your dirty work? Hand me the filthiest. No problem, I will swallow it whole. Nothing to be encountered after I have wedged my jaw open. I will consume, without second thought, without any traces, no? Not convinced? Okay, I will leave then. Please excuse the broken window.

For some reason, it is of greatest difficulty to escape such recurring themes, and to not bore you, although I care little, I will start anew. Here I am, bestow me with any name, any craft, any vocation. We have seen that my parents are not responsible, that I sculpted myself from the filth of ours. Well, why am I here, then? For no reason. Sure, that is outrageous, but soothing too, is it not? I am here and that’s it, nothing more to be acquired, no riches, no dead bodies, only a rehearsal. Yes, it seems crucial that we try something else now, and it is not that I ask you, no, I decide, which is to say that no one does. Take one of these very few colleagues I had, she went by the name of Marta, if that really was her name, for it could have been any other, and upon closer inspection, I have to concede that she has not been my colleague either. It shall not matter. Marta always squatted next to the shack where she was housed, it was not necessarily a shack, no, compared to the dilapidating walls of ours, it was more of a mansion. A temple, ah, what a little contrast can do: turn night into day, marvellous trickery. The temple was dedicated to the praise of Marta, so, I imagined. Her composure was refined. There she squatted, in a posture of great allure, she withstood the terrible tension that such a position must have caused.

Every now and then, members of the family scurried around the domicile, it was always a great commotion, no particular context was to be discerned, or to put it differently, it seemed as if a bee-colony was divested of its queen. Lush gardens surrounded the building, but Marta preferred to squat on a barren patch of soil. Her father must have been a tyrant, a filthy toad. He would lurch around the house, to subdue whatever passed his way, with a pitchfork he ploughed through the blossoming fields, only to have his servants start anew. On that day, good as any, the scene was as usual: Marta spent all day, bending her knees, her bottom almost kissing the ground. Her father, harassing the servants. Her mother, locked up in her room. There they were, together but separated.

One fine day, Marta’s father leaped out of the entrance, towards the gate he rushed, tossing insults around, screaming from the top of his voice. Probably he was off to another courtesan. Mating, that was his sole competence if that is any. In the meantime, Marta’s mother appreciated the little peace she acquired, short-lived, but still. Often, she would assess the benefit of leaving, and even more often she would realize that her husband was as filthy a buffoon as any. Small were the prospects, and thus, she settled with complacency. In her room everything was neatly ordered, in her room, she dreamt of a partner one could talk to, one that professed more than quacking and procreation. In a shining cupboard, she collected some of her desires, there they would sit and gather dust. But it could have been worse, she would tell herself that this beast of hers is vulgar, yes. And then she would tell herself that her daughter seems to have expunged her father’s qualities, and radical she was, her daughter. Short-lived were her mother’s worries and, as unlikely as it seems, it requires my insistence to highlight the virulence of Marta’s protest.

And my protest, in turn, would go like this: O Marta, you will soon fade. There you squat, refuse to eat. With careful resolve, you dodge your fathers’ beatings, you swallow your food only to spit it out. These are your faint cries of indignation. We should picture your face, but we can’t, I can’t. A mother, full of sorrow, a toad, full of virility, a father, full of nothing, a mother, maltreated and worn. O Marta, I would say, come, give me your hand. Not that I could lift you up, no, but you can join me, and we’ll walk. We will tread along and do little, but we’ll move somewhere. O Marta I can see that you see, more than I, worse than I. Marta, I don’t understand, you fade for an idea. No, Marta, join me, and we will learn little, we will see little, but we will exist. Is that worse than not? O, I know not, but you seem to know, and it is frightening. Take my hand, and you will postpone, you can try tomorrow, join me first. Almost needless to add, Marta remained, she squatted until her last day. And even a little after the very last, she squatted, until she tipped over.

Gone, Marta is gone, as is my hope to one day acquire a colleague, a friend, a comrade. In a brief flicker, she threw a dim ray into my world, for some peculiar reason this very column of light elucidated nothing, it only directed my attention, toward a nagging wound that I henceforth cannot ignore anymore. I wanted to thank Marta, but I couldn’t. That little martyr died, some conviction has driven her. Stubborn, to die for such a redundancy, fleeting they are, such persuasions. Unable, I was to communicate. If only she could have accepted that today’s confidence is tomorrow’s distrust, she could have shed her sorrow, resolved to acquire something new. But maybe, now that I come to think of it, this was precisely the problem, maybe Marta was much closer to myself than I am able to concede. Maybe today’s pendulum was tomorrow’s pit. And yes, it is true, thus conceived, everything is quite unbearable.

Dreadful, yes, but necessary. Or not at all, no, necessary it is not. All I wanted was for Marta to see that there is more to it, more pain, but also more, pure and simple. Yes, more, not that little. Such a short life. Maybe she had it all, yes, I think with this thought we can conclude her little tale. She had it all, and thus she left, she had it all, which is to say, she had nothing. Wise she was, Marta. Marta, I miss you. And if I knew where you are, I would visit you, I would pay you a visit, and it would cost me nothing. No, it would enrich me. Rich I am, with friends like you, but you are gone. Before I could count you as one of the very few: the few that withstand me. Before you joined them, you joined the soil. There you go, selfless as you were, please forgive me. I haven’t been the friend you deserved. Which is to say, I haven’t been a friend at all, you didn’t know me, how should you? I gazed at you, from the top of my hill. And probably. Marta was not your name, as we know, the purpose of names escapes me, but to hold on to these thoughts I needed to provide a title. A little hint which helps me to find you again. In this mess, which is my head, if it is the head, where my thoughts are stored. Yes, there, on a tremendously dishevelled shelf, there you are. Thanks to your name, I have found you. Thanks to this name I made up, you can be found among the turmoil.

Enough that is, it provides a little reprieve, does it not? It does, you are less alone, which is to say, you are not alone. For being alone allows no gradients. Yes or no, I heard this before. But where, when and why escapes me. And now you know why this is so, you are welcome. It shall remain that way, for I surely cannot resolve this.

And the editors? They can’t either; yes, they will try hard to provide you with the coherence your heart desires. But it is not to be wrenched from these lines. And why is that? Well, it seems more honest, does it not? Not that I would value honesty, no, it is surely no question of values, what is it then that we are seeking? Well, nothing, but nothing is much, very much. If you have acknowledged that there is little to be acquired, you realize that the doors are tossed open. Yes, nothing guards them, except your complacency, of course. Which is to say, mine, for we talk about me. And I do thank you a little, for, you made it far, yes, you have joined me for a while now. And it shall be said, it feels very different, that is, I feel nothing, which is not that different from feeling something. Miniscule it is, the difference. I mean, a fly’s shit. There, only in the prefix: no, that bit of some is not decisive. More than nothing, you might say. But what if, and this is unsettling, what if, nothing is more pressing than nothing: more real. Someone has said this before, yes, nothing is more real than nothing. There we have it: someone has said it and it has become an aphorism. Yes, nothing to be acquired but much to be said. Beautiful, such a quote, frightening too. Suitable for a poster, on a wall. Perfectly satisfactory in these decisive moments, in which nothing has happened, but everything has moved. Yes, someone has said it and I feel very close. Every now and then I feel so very close to it all, until someone smacks it out of me.

On that day, when we lost Marta, I could but drown my sorrow. There I was, for the first and last time, I walked into a bar, a pub, a whole in the wall. As generic as that place was, there is little purpose in disclosing its details. Not that I look for purpose; right, why not then? Here we go: majestic antlers were protruding from the walls, a crackling fire in one corner, small groups of mean brutes in the other. Finally, a filthy counter, covered in bottles. I stumbled towards the counter, for that is what you need to do in order to place your order. Here I come, already teetering from left to right. Here I come, drunk before I enter, but that is no unusual sight, no. The respectable ones, they don’t let their blood outrun them, no, my blood remains intoxicated. Yes, the heart pumps drastically, the liver is trying hard. Sometimes, it tries to talk to me, here I am. Yes, that pain, on that lower third of your torso, to your right: that’s me. And, as you can imagine, I ward it off. Please liver, you are not alone, no, we both need to bear this, and if you don’t want even more of a mess, please continue to provide your services until we close down, indefinitely. Cirrhosis, what is that? An insult. Yes, that it would be, if had to quit drinking because my organs decided so. Not that I ever was in the habit of drinking. But today, I see the point. Today, I understand the purpose of scaring your liver. And these scars, they can be of another provenance. No, not drink, not food, for the latter it definitely cannot be. No, other infections, and yes, they can have me if that is what they wish. Better them than no one. Here I am: give me some of your strongest. Give me anything. I will empty it all. Yes, here is my mouth, I open it, and down it goes. Into this dark abyss I toss one gulp after the other.

Yes, today I will be tingled by oblivion, today I shall forget everything that has transpired. I thought that I prepared well, that nothing would impede my path, that we would dash towards the end and that somewhere, somewhen, during that journey, I could spit out what needed to be said. Here I came, lost friends and family. Much was said, and little achieved. Please, I won’t measure, fill my glass, I’ll fill myself. Yes, today, I will remain until tomorrow. Today will transpire and tomorrow will be like this day. I will wake up, somewhere. I will have soiled my pants, maybe I will rest in my vomit, and it shall not matter. Yes, my juices shall join me, and I am not obscene, no. I only have to acknowledge that sometimes, or most often, that sometimes things run out of control, things start controlling themselves and maybe that is what they should have done, all along.  

But I am not here to tell you how my bowels emptied what I carefully gathered. No, that night was peculiar, I thought we had come close to something. Yes, all of a sudden, the elegy, the stuttering birds, the cracks in the walls, they all were coming together, forming something. A perilous structure, sure, but a structure. Which is to say, I was close to providing what you seek, implicitly at least. Not that I would discern the difference between the outside and that which is carefully suppressed, but still, I could tell that we almost made it. I understood something, albeit little. And you, you were to be rewarded for your patience. And then? Well, then life lets you flounder.

There you are, lying in the dirt, unable to retrieve your posture. Unable to discern what you have become. A whim of life, a pustule, a bug. And then, what? Well, nothing, little, less. Be it as it may, I was almost elated. Bedded in a palanquin, Marta was to be with me. She didn’t know but I knew. I had an advantage, sufficiently distant as I was, I knew that we were to join paths. Then? Death. Yes, horrifying, yes, perfectly regular, and yes, that amounts to the same. Little was gained, much was lost. So please, be my judge.

I could not but flood my veins. That night, I did well. Carefully I tread along that rope, carefully, I drank much, o so much, but not too much. Which is to say, I did not put an end to myself, no, that needs to wait. I ascertained that there will be a tomorrow, another drink, another day. Probably I don’t need to specify that this bar, during that night, was not particularly welcoming. No, it was not. They wanted me to leave. Unable to discern what I was, and what I searched, they sought to banish me: the earlier, the better. And I could not tell why, it should have been perfectly ordinary. I mean, I should have been suited, suitable for such an environment. After all, my motives were transparent, never have they been as blazingly bright. All I sought was forgetting, yes, somewhere, hidden inside one of these bottles, oblivion is waiting, that is what I heard, looked for.

And I asked them all. Yes, I must have been swollen already, swollen from emptiness. Where is it, I yelled. Where to forget, and how? Don’t forget about the how, you fools. Foam gathered around my mouth. Show me, show me how it’s done. You do it every day, you should have acquired some mastery. Yes, I was warming up, that night, we were set to witness a spectacle.

Impatient, I tossed my arms through the air, following no discernible pattern, they flew, far and wide. And my legs, what did they do? I know not, they were strenuously sustaining me. And my fists, I must have hit myself a few times. What pitches my strenuous voice can achieve: marvellous. Yes, I scream for now is not the time for whispers, no, the hushed talk you can leave to the others, I am here to cry. And then, there is a large stretch that I don’t remember. Was it long that I passed out? Who knows, I was doing just fine, never better, never worse. And then language quit its service. Not that it ever served me well, but I could not resort to words anymore. No, it was time for acts, not that I would be a partisan of their difference, but it shall not matter. Yes, without further ado, I seized a bottle and emptied it. Into my emptiness I tossed more, and that was when I reached the maximum. Yes, I was about to ascend. The bottle was smooth, cold. In a spasmodic burst I let it crush on the table. In the process I cut myself a little, but blood shall not occupy us, no. No, the blood we leave to the lovers of the soil, to the eaters of dirt.

Peculiar, how that bit of alcohol drove me into a frenzy: through the air I tossed my arms, my fists, now armed with a bit of glass. A few mean shards were to reinforce, to vindicate, my demands. Which were they? I had none, I was empty, and full. No, this is no contradiction, and if it is, why would I care? There I was: the most ordinary of guests, the most vulgar of drunkards. Give me some of your time, but you won’t, filthy ingrates. Here I am, coming to forget, and you, knowing exactly how it is done, you decide to ignore me. You choose to stare. What is that thing doing here? Our precious little hide-out, our temple, what a blasphemy to have this heathen among us. Thinking that you have marked your territory, you still have to deal with the foreign, the exotic, the foolish. That night, the stars were set to dance. Why not crush my head: I implored the sky to collapse, my mother to return, my diarrhoea to seize. I asked for Marta. For how can it be that we persist, and she is gone? How can it be that such budding life is extinguished? I have no answer and neither have you. And as protocolled, I had no recourse to language. But now that I come to think of it, what is language but the absence of language? Thus, I delivered a show, an audacious play in two acts.

First act: The collapse is imminent, perfectly visible how that thing is going to crash, falter, implode. Carefully introduced, all the threads are visible, tied together in an insoluble knot. No details needed: chaos, epiphany. Maybe, there would be a solution. The iron fist, some astringent measures. Not all hope is lost. Otherwise, how to entertain you? There it is, in the distance but visible. Take it, that path will guide you. Follow it and resolve awaits. But no, of course not, no romanticism to be encountered. No, we see the disaster, I see it. And thus, directly, unceasingly, I head towards it. A little sway, scepticism, reprieve, but no solution.

Second act: sufficiently intoxicated, but there is room for more, there always is. All balance is lost, the protagonist is thrown hither and thither, maybe even a bit of lust is aroused. Might that be possible? No. Any secretion immediately dries out, all circulation ceases. We are waiting for the crescendo. Yes, you waited long, I did as well. It takes a long time to learn how to properly abuse yourself. Yes, drinking is no easy thing, coma awaits, and more too, maybe even a premature end. And that night, it seems obvious now, that night I had a rendezvous with the end. I invited it home, but it refused to join. And thus, to express my gratitude, I started thrashing that horrendous tavern. Beating everything to a pulp, that was all I could think of.

You anticipated it, the second act does not conclude well. No, no relief to be acquired. What an elation, to send your extremities flying, to destroy and not to construct, to mark your presence, as an interruption. There was no stopping me, I think I did not come far. With every shattered glass, every drowned bottle, I was invigorated. Which is to say, I felt something. Long have I tried to claw myself out of that numbing cage, only to meet with my dear friend, forgetting. Yes, liquor, you ingrate, such an arduous path and there I come across you. Another bump in my frame and there you are, offering yourself, without demand, without reprieve, without doubt, I take it, I take what you give, as I always do. I take no prisoners, and I swallow whole, as I most often do. This time was different, I seem to have confronted a limit, invisible but all-too present. In this frenzy of mine I must have stopped at some stage, numb and vexed, I stopped. Where was I? What? And especially: why? Brief was that flickering qualm, not long before I reached for the next thing. What a spectacle it must have been, not that all of this is unusual, no. But the delicacy lies in my incredulity. Or rather, in my attempt of shedding it off. Tossing it away, like a second skin. For a brief instant, I was one with the world. Which is not to indicate that I sought to dominate, no. It merely implies that, for once, I was both, the recipient, and the purveyor, of pain. If I could, I would recapitulate the magnificent fanfare.

Perceiving it from the other end. Yes, from the side of the spectator: yours; I was but a lost bum. Too sedated to decipher anything, that thing was adrift in a worsening stupor. Sure, a few glasses flew, a chair was broken, but, in the process, it must have severely injured that pal’s leg. The spectacle lasted maybe a minute, a final drink put an end to the show, sent that thing crashing to the ground. And there it lay. You drunkards were unsure how to respond, or if to respond at all. And then, you decided to toss that filth out of the bar, and because you felt generous, you gave the ambulance a call. I remember little, only that some miniscule light summoned me. I opened my eyes, and that glimmer inundated me with the burden of remembrance. Awake, I soon realized that my crooked leg was embalmed in plaster. Crutches were provided, my wallet was perused. Empty as always, they sent me off: nothing to be acquired from that beggar. Deluded, I must have stumbled in circles. A few more days and my intoxication will settle, I will be renewed, and the leg? Well, it never served me well. Let it remain confined in that prison, like myself.

We can easily see that my brief outburst, this minor ejaculation, was but a sham. I sought to commemorate the deceased, and all I tried was to join them. That is what the nurse told me, when they complemented me out of the hospital. No need to join them, they are always with me, I stuttered. A few meters from the exit, I let myself down. On a bench, I slept the sleep of children. Where to turn to? That was what I thought before my body asked for tribute. And indeed, there is nothing to turn to. I was close, but I am no longer. When the sun collapsed, some guard kindly showed me out of my slumber. Off you go, hop along. Some water, I implored. It is about to rain, he responded.

I will go, that is, I will try. Not to fool you, not to fool myself. There are severe obstacles, liquor is not one of them. One crutch after the other, this new impediment to my mobility was but a trifle. Ha, I thought, what I might achieve with these devices, magnificent.

Yes.