Six

I woke up today and greeted my toycat. He didn't reply. The window told me the world was celebrating. Would somebody care to explain what exactly?

One-two-three-four-five. Maybe six. Was it something I said? Was it the way I looked at you once? The way I turned my head so many times -away from you? What is it that made Erinye out of a wunderkind? What is it you're revenging, still, time and again entering the flow of what they call life and turning it into a maelstrom?

I dressed, got out of my grave and joined the celebration. Nights of horror are so negligibly small - you can hide them behind a regular pair of sunglasses. Smile to the passers-by, you can't afford being honest. Not yet.

One. Who said autumn is a sad season? Septembers are sometimes so bright--the sun shines in your eyes, and all you see is gold and turquoise. Septembers can be so hot--is your scar still burning? Laugh in autumn--you may not survive till spring. Sing, sing, sing the song of September. It promised us Eden. Too bad we're atheists now.

From one grave to another. Only two smiles on the way—could be worse. Smiles are always a hit in spring, but I'm not fashionable. I'm Jack's walking corpse.

Two. Many, many verses about distance. Post box becomes the center of the Universe. Maps suddenly start meaning something. Something more than a geography assignment. An invisible point lost in a huge country pulsates with what in Romanian they call dor. "Like the deserts miss the rain..."

Check the sites. Internet is a great thing--has instructions for every case possible. brokenheart-dot-com. I need to know names and quantities. Yes, aesthetics does matter. If not, I still have my secret place, only I have to check what's underneath (I don't want just to paint the ground as an April Fool's joke, do I? And I feel nothing like checking the condition of local hospitals.)

Three. Silence. Think, think of some topic while you're dialing. One, two, three, four, five, six. Not at home. Never there. Exhale. "I just wanted to say that everything worked out pretty well, so I'm not coming back." When after three days I was still breathing, I realized I would live. Wasn’t that a disappointment.

Now, to the sellers of health. Can I buy salvation, please? No, I don't want to contact Mormons. Mass-production salvation with a seasonal discount. But you have to smile. And spend so much time with saviors. No, thank you.

Four. Freedom! Euphoria tastes like coffee in the airplane, like sandwiches eaten in the train that takes you to the unknown. Happiness smells of blooming trees. Love feels like those uncomfortable BENches in the park. One, two, three, four, five days should be enough. "If I leave her, she'll kill herself." How did he know I was doomed to live? After three weeks, I was still bleeding. He was an exact opposite of you. After three months, I forgot his face.

I'm thinking what would I write if I had your address. I mean normal, postal one. Should I tell you all about it? All about keeping my nose up in the sky so that no one can see how deep in the mud I am? About standing still amidst a parade of whores, deafened by their sighs, knocked down by dense passion in the air, and laughing my head off? I am Jack's nerves of stone. Anyhow, I don't have your address. Besides, handwriting is so very personal.

Five. I'm fascinated by the wind. But how can I capture it? Would I dare? One - Frisbee flies uphill. Don't look up - you'll go blind. Two - Frisbee’s flying back. Don't look down -you'll get dizzy. Three - here comes the Frisbee ...and flies by me, taken by the wind. Away. Too much wind might make a storm. The storm will turn your world upside down and kick you out of all your orientation systems. I couldn't catch my wind. I couldn't step out and fly with it, either.

You're still on the other end of the line, your computer showing the virtual reality of my life. Right, watch me trying to break free. What are you hiding under your palm? Is it a mouse or a remote control? Are you pressing the button that sends me down sinking every time I'm just a step away from completing the circle? One, two, three, four, five, six years I'm looking for the taste of your lips. I'm trying to define what squeezing your hand feels like. I'm choosing the words to greet you in the morning. I'm searching for your trace in the lines of their faces. I'm listening to your voice echoing between their words, every conversation being a hope to end our argument.

Six. No more friends, ever. There's too much to lose when you have so much in common. I can't sleep when it's so quiet. I can't sleep when there're so many unsaid words hanging in the air. Watch the sun rise above the woods in someone else’s window. Listen to the music forbidden in any other place. I come here to heal and leave bruised. I come here to look in the mirror and leave without a reflection. I’m Jack’s non-existent self.

Rule number one: don’t talk about it. Rule number two: if you talk about it, don’t do it. Rule number three: no saviors. I made sure nobody’s here. I made sure my cat is with me. I made sure my candles don’t set the place on fire (yes, aesthetics still matters). I’m not going to complete the circle, no. I’m going to stop trying. Start looking for a new screen-saver, the old is no fun anymore. Six, five, four, three, two, one. Shut down your computer.