Plastic Flowers – part 3

He was very young, about half my age but he had wanting in his eyes and a lightness of going through things, he was 19 and his mother had just died. It reminded me of myself, it reminded me of how it must feel to be 19 and have no want or need for anything, nothing is yet real, nothing is yet impossible and your miseries are all
mostly imaginary,but in his case it was all very real, his mother had just died and he was fucked for all eternity.

It’s supposed to be the other way around, the dead with the forevers, the living with the temporary, however sometimes life seems to be the hell they talk about and the ones left with the pain, eternally, the things to regret forever are for the ones still giving a crap about fulfillment, life…

And the sermon, the sermon is for the living mostly, the ones behind. We were all racing towards death and this person got there first, they actually won the long haul triathlon of crappy choices, they won’t have to live with the loss of others, they went out first and they are probably laughing with some nice new friends, plants and animals.
The race for death, funerals are an ironic joke and a celebration of the fear for life. This other place must be lush and cluttered, the heaven of hoarders and nostalgic fools.

(I wonder if it’s sunny where you are Mom if not, I hope you brought a jacket. Note to self: I am starting to sound like you when I talked to myself.)

Going back to David, he was, to say the least, interesting. In the five minutes we talked, he said something about a dream, of travelling from the South to the North Pole.There used to be a warm light on his face and hands that used to hold his face, on each side just as he liked it, just to have that warmth disappear suddenly, a bright light struck him, cold, and a growing blue glow, a darkness surrounding everything, until the world would turn into this silent plain and above only the fluorescent lights of a night sky.

One, two, three, he stopped counting,millions of stars would flicker intermittently before his eyes, and one by one, until the last one, they would turn translucent, until at last, he was alone under a vast sky, a vast illuminated by nothing and he felt free and this feeling of belonging, a feeling of isolated calm.

That is how I knew David in the first minutes of our lives together and that is how he is still in my memory, trapped in a dream of travelling, from warmth to cold, from womb to isolation, forever falling star into nothingness.

Yet when I met him it was such a spring of feeling for me, such a joyful remembrance of warmth, of the South, of how it feels for someone to hold your face with the palms of their hands and give warmth and wanting, of looking into their eyes, no way out, just straight ahead and dive deep into that world, dive fast and deep.

So we kissed each other and dived with no reserve oxygen tank, for as long as it would last, in an overheated old car, one Monday evening, and he was spring again and I must have been like winter.

After the short struggle of what might have seemed to the untrained eye, a battlefield for rookies, we got to talking, mostly I, he said nothing in reality, just nodded and drove me home. He was the only one, who knew, about my now opened, ridiculous, plastic collection.

Then we just parted and made this a Monday thing, a Monday, over Monday, over Monday, one, two, three, we stopped counting, millions of Mondays, each with their constellation of doubts and discoveries, and he would talk more and I would keep my silence.

[continue]

[Roxana Olaru]

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