kiteszem a kuk�t, hogy elvigy�k.

/ this writing - though filled with open analogies - has mostly been inspired by those lines that go like, "no - no, no-no. no-no, no-no." /

***

Well, I know you couldn't love me (not that it was a surprise. Not that it could ever come as a surprise).

'cause you're promised to... are you promised? is that someone else now, that makes your promises?

***

I take a look, and I wish I could look away, I wish I could just wish away my feelings - to quote the Most Sithy Lord of All Time -, but sometimes, wishing is childish. Wishing is hiding behind your dirty palms, and screaming "you can't see me". Wishing is believing that somehow, they really can't, and they can"t hear your screaming either, that your voice is just the eerie echo of their own feelings of regret over something they have never done to you. (You wish they had. At least you would have a legit target for all your youthful passion and hate). Wishing is all that, and more, and worse. To act as an adult, one would have to assume, and assumptions are hard and rough and they smell of unpleasant things like statistics, cheap cans and reality.

***

Nowadays, I feel the need to go and see Dr Xanax far more frequently than I used to. More times than I should. Sometimes, I choose my orgies with the Nervous Twitchin' instead. That one's a real bitch, all dressed up and cute, makes your head spin, and for just one more time, you fall into the trap and actually believe that you're in for a good time. But Ms Nervous Twitchin' lets you down, the kinky stuff is nowhere, and everything you get is just another dark circle beneath your eyes.

Those times, you turn to God, provided that He exists. My grandfather always said that as long as we exist, God exists. Then we fucking die, and he fucking dies with us. He said it like this, made the fig gesture with his right hand (you know, the one you make when something is so worthless you don't even give the middle finger), and laughed. I always felt real sorry for God, because I believed in him, I believed he could do things.

I think that maybe God is a cat-like spirit. He sees you and understands you, sometimes he's even loyal and understanding, and he comforts you. And he's really intelligent. But sometimes, you're just that glass on the table which is not sympathetic for Him at all, so he screws you... but being screwed is quite relative, just as all other things are relative. Does the broken glass feel screwed? It's suddenly much bigger, much wider than before. It sees dimensions previously unknown to it. The broken glass, somehow, becomes eternity until you take the shovel and balance its pieces to the trash can. Maybe God has the same logic when he plays the cat game.

* * *

The good thing about my life is, I never feel like a beggar. I didn't even feel like it when I was almost actually one. I'm more like a hanger-on really - certain things are expected of me, and I never fail to disappoint. I don't really feel invited to this whole life-business, either... I just came around, went around, and stayed out of necessity. Out of pressure. Out of obligation. But half of me is still floating in the material-less space I've come from, and doesn't really feel like coming back.

***

Really... listen to me, you little flame. You are an Idea. You're something pure and valuable. You have nothing to do with me. You don't need to be exposed to a hanger-on. You don't want ME to be the one who bends you to their purposes. My purposes are dirty and self-sufficient. You wouldn't be happy around me. My soul smells.

(Of course, you're stupid. Just like my ass. My ass is real stupid).

(And you decide to stay, and save me).

* * *

I went to look for our lock today.

You would deny it - provided that I'd ever get the chance to tell you - that it was ours. You'd rather deny its existence outright than to admit that it had anything to do with me.

(it wasn't there).

I had the dimmest memories of when and where  you - we - could have placed it (trying to ignore the why), but either it had been removed (you removed it?) or it just eluded me (did it elude you as well?)

Perhaps it was not even the lock I was searching for, or perhaps my eyes were too busy trying not to see. If I'd found that thing, I would have removed it. (I guess).

(perhaps you have really removed it).

If that's true, you're being unfair. The lock wasn't even ours... perhaps someone guessed the same thing, and stole it. Perhaps I wasn't attentive enough. Perhaps I just didn't have eyes for it. Perhaps it was fate (or your goddamn will) who decided I should never find it again.

But what could I have done? Break it? Piss on it, like a dog? Melt it? Toss it into the river? I have no more power over that lock than I do over you.

(Perhaps, just a bit).

-

Now, for your information, I'm sitting in the park where we used to talk about the lock, and everything it meant. (Did it mean anything?)

-

(no, I did not find it, I found memories instead, and that's too bad, because you can't fucking burn memories).

That lock is like a mythic creature to me now. I know it exists, I believe it exists, but no one else ever saw it. No one, but you.

-

I bet it wasn't even a special lock. I'm sure it was ugly. My mind is just colouring the picture - perhaps it's even good that I never found it, lest I had that sensation you feel when you revisit the places where you'd spent your childhood and suddenly, they all seem so small and poorly.

-

I went to look for our lock today. I'm disappointed.

I didn't quite expect to really find it, but I did expect to find something.

This void is so full: it's not to my liking.