Flash, fragments

Splinters

I’m tempted to write about how much this means to me. I really am. But then again, should I? I mean, who’s going to read to this? People are going to judge me? I don’t know. I feel terrible about all of this. And I can’t even begin to think about what “this” it. Strange, isn’t it? I know. The perks of being a human being. A man. A woman. A complicated walking thing. Yes, sucks. I know. But to be honest with you that wasn’t the point. Of all this I mean, of this nonsense. And not, the life part. That is a bigger nonsense that I couldn’t even try to put into words. Even images wouldn’t be accurate enough. No, what I mean is, gosh, where am I going with this? Well, okay. Let’s start again. Something happened recently. Something terrible, or something really good, depending on perspectives. And that’s the thing – I am both perspectives. I can’t say whether or not I’m pleased, or sad, or mad. Whatever. I can’t say anything anymore, about me, that is. And this, this impression, this feeling. This means a lot to me. Somewhere somehow, in a way, that’s what real freedom is. How? you’d ask. Well hold on a second. Close your apps and settle your phone down. Look at me and think. Just imagine you react to something without any preconceived moral, knowledge, rule of thumb or whatever the fuck, sorry, crossing that fuck out, or whatever else you could think of. Imagine reacting to something as if it was the first time you ever saw such a thing, as if you were back to being a child, not caring about oil, politics, psychopaths, cold pizza, whatever. Just imagine. Do you see what I mean?

She closed the notebook and put it back on the shelf. She knew it wasn’t supposed to be here, out in the open. And she knew she shouldn’t have. But she couldn’t help. She had to know. He was always writing things, jotting words and sentences quickly in there, and she never dared asking what is was. Did he write stories? Maybe. After all, did she truly know him? She went to the bathroom, turned around and came back into the room. It was still there, on the shelf, light coming from the window gleaming on it. There was something compelling about it all. The texture, the words, the flow. It seemed oral, natural, him. So she took it back and opened it again. The right page was crossed out almost entirely. And the remaining space had been filled with bits and pieces of quotes. Meaningless drawings and doodles. Splinters, it said.

I like the left page. I often look at it first. I open something, anything. And I think “left”. Does that mean anything? The fuck if I know. Sorry, language. But I’m sure some thought-reader or psycho-analysis expert would probably find an answer in my childhood. Who knows, I may have one of those unresolved complex things. Or perhaps it is that I have, like many others before me, and many others to come, integrated peculiar code in an excessive manner. Excessive in the sense that, I don’t even know if this is a natural behavior. There’s no proving that I haven’t been totally changed and rewritten by an uprooting pattern, a forced education that has had way too much influence on both my physical appearance and my personality. Moments have passed and times and years have fled until I was fully able to realize how much and how deep everything structural in me needed to be revisited. Reworked on, rebranded perhaps. Not that there is anything wrong with my life, who I am or what I aim towards. It is just that, as a living and breathing individual, which is, oddly enough, quite restrictive, I am sometimes led to wonder if I am not becoming a self operating mechanism.

Some sort of abstraction, she read out loud. She knew he could be strange, and indeed he was at times. But not the typical strange you would associate with, say, Heath Ledger in Batman, more like a geeky strange. A harmless strange; on a physical level at least. No, one thing was sure. He had a complex mind. A greatly screwed up complex mind. After ten years, she was still amazed at his abilities : he could, in a matter of seconds, quote Shakespeare, and then end his sentence quoting a pro-wrestler. There was no saying where or what his mind was. It seemed bubbly, juggling, like a kaleidoscope. And it frightened everyone around. They called him crazy. And soon enough, they stopped calling him altogether. She knew it took a toll. You can be a loner, you can. But it doesn’t mean you stop being lonely. Being aware of that, she took it upon herself to stay. She stayed and stayed and stayed. She stayed a lot, even when she shouldn’t have. And perhaps it was what people called sacrificing yourself for someone else. Perhaps. And perhaps it was what other people called love. Perhaps. She wasn’t sure, but she tried hard enough. She decided to read another extract, one last, before going. She wasn’t taking that much time for herself as it were and her weekly strolls around the lake weren’t to be disturbed by this. She flipped a few pages forward, trying to see if there was any sense of chronology in there. But it all seemed to be fragments. Eventually, she came to the last page, and read slowly.

Gone.

Written in the middle of the right page, the word was entirely alone. The left page had been left untouched. No scribbles, no drawings. Nothing that could hint any other activity than the simple act of putting four letters down to a piece of paper. Why bother? she thought. Why bother writing a sole and unique word? There are things in life you don’t quite understand. And people too. In fact, she thought, there’s probably many more people you can’t understand than events. That’s probably scientifically proven. And mostly because people are idiots. Awfully terrible idiots. But he wasn’t. He was what he was. Gone.

 

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