And walking obstinately against the freezing night I remembered.
Remembered my own agonies - not that long ago - my afternoons spent with knife and wine as only companions, my anger against the person I was (and to be honest still am..). And I wanted to say something. To break the wall and console his sorrow. But realized, halfway through the thought, that none can break the wall. There is no word or smile that can heal your wounds...
and I felt old, a veteran of this, used to the practice almost to boredom but yet, a bit outside the circle at times. Actually most times. Me, of all people. Me, who only thursday considered the scissors while drinking from the bottle....
sitting by the highway watching the traffic, it felt like going back in time with the full moon witnessing our mad attempt to stop time in one tear.
at the end we came back, frozen to the bone, dancing on that bitter cheerfulness that only death leaves.
Walked into Ariadne's warm room and felt like another world. Colourful and happy. And she was in another world. The good old pathetic world that does not understand, not even trying hard, because they don't know how to understand. Or what to understand. And she wanted apologies, wanted me to ask him to stop drinking. My God. Who is she to ask that? She obviously doesn't know....... lived her cosy life for 20 years, without accidents. Warm in her pink douve playing the party of the worried friend. I felt tipsy and spaced out.
I definitely prefer the night. Cold and bitter. The bites of deadly agony occasionally calling from the inside, wanting their share of my life. The feeling that I'm in a war, in which whatever ending is determined by me.... lols. The wind in my face. The struggle.
John Barleycorn must die.