Absurdia.Net

I got an email from my mother. She’s talking in it of little everyday struggles, like cats hiding under the bed and card playing with her friends. And I am here, reading what she writes, the few lines that sum up her life, not being able to adjust to what she says as I were just taking a trip. She is lonely and I can tell. Just a few words and caps strategically positioned. She is lonely and getting older day by day. But you know how it is, some families are not meant to be together. Faces disappear one by one till there’s nobody left that wants another portion of dessert. How to make your mother understand it’s a farewell, not a goodbye?

Today the usual weather changes. From sunny to rainy and all over again. And the fog in the early morning. You get to know people, somebody you can learn to trust, and when you’re starting to think you’ll have a whole life together, it’s time to say goodbye. In the fog and in the rain. Or simply in a dull kind of weather that’s not as romantic as it should be. And you cannot really tell why, but everything takes another hue, and shades are other shades, and sunrays are cold and watered down, like they’ve been drowned in some kind of sticky substance. The voices of the neighborhood are deprived of the expectation of a familiar knock on the door; they’re just voices, distant, unknown. Children play in the streets because it’s too bright to tell them the Boogeyman is coming for them – what sort of Boogeyman would walk around like this, not looking scary at all, just clumsy and silly? And I cannot point out where or how, but I feel a little spot of uneasiness that’s been bothering me all day, when I sat on the table of the cafe and when I started making dinner and when I was simply trying to spot cats on the streets. But cats, bless them, are always a good cure for aching frenzies of any kind.

I’m not sure why, but tomorrow is another day and there are still chances for me or for anybody. Things keep on getting soiled by life, people keep on aging though they won’t admit it, cats will eat furballs and then vomit them again and again. I don’t know if I’m feeling well. In fact I could be feeling very bad, because no place is really home. So much beauty around you that doesn’t let you get closer even after a lifetime. You’re a stranger all the time. So little time and so many things you don’t even have the time to notice. I’m not sure why, but things keep on going on.

The day’s end is drawing near. For somebody out there it’s about to start. The socials, the well-offs. A whole parallel universe of human specimens exists even in this place. Parallel, as in separated from myself in an utterly irreparable way. But I’m not saddened to be stuck to this side of things, to my own sphere. One creates its own universe, the one he’s going to live in, and it’s a construction whose progress is never-ending. Hypocrites complain, stupids complain. But they’re builders as much as I am of their own cages. Whatever takes place on the other side, in the parallel life where others live, it’s not really our concern. Pretending it is helps us making our boundaries firmer and our roots stronger. But that’s all there is to it. And only the fool can go astray, crossing the borders.

As I write my thought inflates and deflates in a rhythmical sequence with no established rules to be followed. I can feel the pulse of the many thoughts coming and going, merging in a background of nothingness or getting starker in the limelight. I do not feel at ease with myself. I can’t follow my own line of reasoning, maybe because I don’t really have one. I touch the temple, first the right, then the left, and perceive a warm zone right where it hurts more. What is that causes that pain? Lack or overabundance of something going on? Maybe it’s just casual and it’s caused by nothing at all. The feeling is bothering me all the same. Doesn’t matter to have actual reasons for everything. Sometimes things just are, and that’s enough for everybody to realize there’s nothing to do about it.

I keep on waiting for a sign, but signs are not meant to comply with my selfish wishes. I scan the day with a foggy eye and smell the scent of nothing that spreads in every direction. Rain finally subsided. Condensation sticks to the windows like a layer of glass covering another layer of glass. I hear the neighboring door opening and closing behind another closed door. And then it’s silence again. All the hopefulness I struggled to develop vanishes with the thudding sound of the wooden door. The neighbor is a shadow that greets me on the stairs once in a while, but for the rest of the time he is just a nobody like me, like myself looked at from the outside. Alone in the house I remember I am afraid. Afraid of what, I am not sure yet. I have a clue, a sensation. The kind of fear I experience when I am asleep and I dream about going back. A nightmare. The thought of exile disguised as a comeback. I’m not part of that anymore, but I keep on dreaming about it, I keep on living in fear. Nighttime extends itself endless like a formless stain. The room becomes a crate, in which light but no air penetrates from unwanted slits. The upper story tenant walks restlessly from bed to bathroom and from bathroom to bed, making rustling noises over my head. It’s early and it’s late. It makes no difference anyway. I wish tomorrow were here. I wish I will be here tomorrow.