Monday, November 2

Newspaper

IT HAS BEEN six whole days since I last sat down to write. I could not tell you whether it feels like six days or not, but most certainly it is good to sit down again with only the meagre act of writing on my mind. On Saturday night I slouched lazily on my uncomfortable sofa watching horror films one after the other. The lights were off. Guilt flooded me when I realised that, for the first unaccompanied Saturday night in months, I was not putting down a single word. Hmm, it is not in me, I thought. After the films – on Halloween – I was suitably terrified, hearing all sorts, and suffering the kind of paranoia I am strangely familiar with. Outside of my window was a man wearing a motorcycle helmet, the visor black. He was looking up at me, standing in the middle of the road, not moving or flinching from my discovery, but staring straight back. I decided that it was time to call it a night, and hurried into bed for a flood of nightmares; a festival of all my greatest fears played out during sleep. These days the nightmares do not bother me, although I am not sure why.
That is not to say I have not been doing anything. There go the twinkling headlights of a car behind the falling foliage of a nearby tree. Local kids set off fireworks, still, outside of my flat so that they explode next to my closed window and light my walls with shattering splatters of red and green. There is a girl who loves to go down on me. She is something with her mouth. I explode into her, for fun. She does not like it when I laugh after an orgasm, which I am always inclined to do; the spasms of orgasm I find quite amusing. I lay there, laughing. While she swallows I laugh to myself. She only wants to go down on me, so that I find it peculiar. In the morning—‘Don’t come in my mouth.’ She leaves after her third breakfast, and I eventually arise, feeling somewhat sad, despite the sun shining blissfully outside my shut blinds. In the bathrooms my chest is lined with bruises, circular footprints of her journeys up and down my body. She has given me a cold. I do not know if I will see her again.
It is not up to me if I am to feel sad.
(After my third week in France I spoke to someone in English and it was most refreshing, it was rejuvenating. I had missed it so much that I communicated a great deal and felt very good for it. I would not say it was dissimilar to when you are in a relationship – a good relationship – and that communication is understood only between the two of you and the world is familiar and happy because of it. That is what I miss so much. Will that happen again? I try to imagine that it will.) Still the words ring in my head—‘I feel you’re sad and lonely, and I imagine that’s an awful two things to be.’
What happened to that girl? Often I wonder to myself how she is, what she is up to; I wonder if she still thinks of me, but I doubt that it is so. Sadness and loneliness had me before her and they have me now, but I am okay; it does not matter a great deal. She turned me on to writing again! That is where I am now. The leaves on the tree next to my flat turn into yellow petals that drop to the pavement where they become copper pennies. Brown yellow green blue; up from the floor and toward the sky. Blue green yellow brown; from the heavens down to this path I walk upon. I go for walks alone, to sip coffee down by the docks, where an old woman comes and knits beside me. Her needles click tick ticking and all the beautiful people gather round the fancy boats, for which I have no interest but to sneer. This weekend my miserable city hung in a spectre of fog. Looking up at the buildings and all of them searching to hide in the grey. My aunt bumps into me in one of the streets and we kiss hello. She says—‘I hate this weather. It depresses me.’ I return—‘I like it when the tops of the skyscrapers disappear into the fog.’ ‘Yes, I like that,’ she says—‘but I still find it depressing.’ I look upward until I feel dizzy. Even though there is nothing for me to say, I say nothing, because it is perfectly natural and not one thing do I expect from this folly than to cease at the end of it. O, I expect I shall go on, aimlessly, yes. Sad and lonely? Undeniably. Miserable? I’ve had worse. Winter approaches. Right now I am a man of winter, if I am nothing else at all.

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