Σάββατο, 18 Φεβρουαρίου 2012

always is always and always is valueless


  I can't quite remember when it started. All this time has gone by so fast until today. And even though most of the days are intolerably long I can talk myself into believing that I am just a fraction of a second away from everything. Any minute now, I can be far away from here, or still here, just in another chair or sitting position for that matter. Or I can be home, sleeping, having dinner, amazed at exactly just how quickly the minutes between anything and everything else diminished and finally, counted zero. I don't mind time and infinite hours. But I feel like time has deceived me, whereas it always cared for the broken hearted to mend their hearts back together, of course after it has collected its price of every life-sucking minute all those people have so gullibly endured. For me, it simply feels as if it is running out. It is just numbers, the one after the other, and days, and months, but nothing more. 


It was not a particularly cold day, as were all the days of the first two weeks of November, but it was getting dark and the sun could no longer bother for some warmth. The train station was brightly lit, and in her mind, all the people crowding the platform were unnoticed, as she was focusing on something across the street behind the opposite platform. However there really didn’t seem to be anything there, but after once in a while glancing around her, her gaze would always end up locked upon the invisible object of interest. She was wrapped inside a heavy, and maybe a size or two larger, black coat, sitting on top of her right leg on those awful steel seats. All train stations in town had these seats, five or six of them together, always unfortunately placed on those spots in every over ground station where the protective ceiling-installations, if one could ever really call them ceilings, were leaking when raining. Her face was ashen pale, except for her lips, red of the wine, and she had visible dark circles under her eyes.
As one of the many trains that had passed before her eyes stopped in the station she remained in her seat but now her eyes were not fixed on what would have been the mystery spot across the street through the open doors and large windows of the railway car, but she was following with her eyes one of the, now fewer, people in the platform. She looked carefully, with devotion, and smiled to a young man, who sat silently next to her, never taking his eyes off of her. He smiled affectionately and swiftly raised his hand to the side of her face, resting the tips of his fingertips on her left cheek for some time, taking her by surprise for some reason. After a little while she looked away, started talking nervously, even though the way her body was just slightly leaning towards him showed anything but awkwardness. They left the platform shortly after sharing a kiss, a kiss only a married couple would exchange, with impeccable familiarity to each other’s motions and certainty, but without it being mechanical, or a shallow gesture. Not at all, it even seemed as if when putting his arms around her he terribly feared the possibility of having her taken away from him, and as if she was warned somehow that she was touching him this way for the last time, closing shut her eyes, trying to will away a well buried torment. They walked away slowly, like they didn’t have a destination.


  There are many myths surrounding night time. Maybe far too many. But there is something about darkness. When everyone goes to sleep, and hides behind walls that rudely deny the lights of the cosmos, protecting the artificial flares that tarnish the canvas of charcoal black, I can almost feel the earth breathe.  As if the sun and the cosmic bodies all align in a sacred conspiracy to force us into being alone for a while. I never want to sleep. I mean, I do want to sleep, most of the times more than anything else that, when not sleep deprivated, could ever tempt me, but I am almost afraid to close my eyes. I wait until my eyes start to feel somewhat oddly swollen, until every mental defence and control is made useless by the so many hours occupied by all the other meaningless crap that goes through my mind during the day. Then my mind either just becomes utterly idle, or it makes me think I am insane. Literally, insane. Then I drink coffee, and then I write. After that, at some point it dawns on me that in four hours, more or less, I should be walking out my door so I convince myself to go to bed. I lie down, and the nightmare begins. But, I am wide awake.






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