Being a small child is just beautiful. You are allowed to make mistakes, it’s cute, not a sin…

Breathing some fresh air… enjoying the sunshine, alone… thinking about my beloved ones, like always; thinking about sharing the good things in life with them, the same things that, to be honest, I am slowly forgetting about.

Chapter XV: Derelict

“He was most himself when he was alone, or working hard and mechanically…In the latter case there was pure forgetfulness, when he lapsed from consciousness. (…) It hurt him so, that things had lost their reality. The first snowdrops came. He saw the tiny drop-pearls among the grey. They would have given him the liveliest emotion at one time. Now they were there, but they did not seem to mean anything. In a few moments they would cease to occupy that lace, and just the space would be, where they gad been. (…) It seemed the just as well might not be as be.

The realest thing was the thick darkness at night. That seemed to him whole and comprehensible and restful. He could leave himself to it. (…) He wanted everything to stand still, so that he could be with her again. (…) Often he lost himself for an hour at time, could not remember what he had done. (…) where was he himself? (…) He had not moved a muscle. He did not want to move. He was not thinking of anything. It was easier so. There was no wrench of knowing anything. Then, from time to time, some other consciousness, working mechanically, flashed into sharp phrases.

‘What am I doing?’

And out of the semi-intoxicated trance came the answer: ‘Destroying myself.’

Then a dull, live feeling, gone in an instant, told him that it was wrong. After a while, suddenly came the question:

‘Why wrong?’

Again there was no answer, but a stroke of hot stubbornness inside his chest resisted his own annihilation.

(…) ‘She’s dead. What was it all for – her struggle?’

That was his despair wanting to go after her.

‘You are alive.’

‘She’s not.’

‘She is – in you.’

Suddenly he felt tired with the burden of it.

‘You’ve got to keep alive for her sake,’ said his will in him.

Something felt sulky, as if it would not rouse.

‘You’ve got to carry forward her living, and what she had done, go on with it.’

But he did not want to. He wanted to give up.

‘But you can go on with your painting,’ said the will in him. ‘Or else you can beget children. They both carry on her effort.’

‘Painting is not living.’

‘Then live.’

‘Marry whom?’ came the sulky question.

‘As best you can.’

‘Miriam?’

But he did not trust that.

(…) He would not say it. He would not admit that he wanted to die, to have done. He would not own that life had beaten him, or that death had beaten him.

(…) Always alone, his soul oscillated, first on the side of death, then on the side of life, doggedly. The real agony was that he had nowhere to go, nothing to do, nothing to say, and was nothing himself. Sometimes he ran down the streets as if he were mad: sometimes he was mad; things weren’t there, things were there.

(…) there was nowhere to go (…) There was nowhere for him. The stress grew inside him; he felt he should smash.

(…) He dared not meet his own eyes in the mirror; he never looked at himself. He wanted to get away from himself, but there was nothing to get hold of.

(…) It was the end then between them. She could not take him and relieve him of the responsibility of himself. She could only sacrifice herself to him – sacrifice herself every day, gladly. And that he did not want. He wanted her do hold him and say, with joy and authority: ‘Stop all this restlessness and beating against death. You are mine for a mate.’ She had not the strength.

(…) He felt, in leaving her, he was defrauding her of life. But he knew that, in staying, stifling the inner, desperate man, he was denying his own life. And he did not hope to give life to her by denying his own.

(…) she saw again his lack of religion, his restless instability. He would destroy himself like a perverse child.

(…) She knew she could not cope with him. He would scape like a weasel out of her hands. Yet without him her life would trail on lifeless.

(…) He was unresponsive. Where would he go? What would be the end of him? She could not bear it, the vacant feeling where he should be. He was so foolish, so wasteful, never at peace with himself. And now where would he go? And what did he care that he wasted her? He had no religion; it was all for the moment’s attraction that he cared, nothing else, nothing deeper. (…) When he had had enough he would give in and come to her.

(…) he had no place in it! Whatever spot he stood on, there he stood alone. From his breast, from his mouth, sprang the endless space, and it was there behind him, everywhere. (…) In the country all was dead still. Little stars shone high up; little stars spread far away in the flood-water, a firmament below. Everywhere the vastness and terror of the immense night which is roused and stirred for a brief while by the day, but which returns, and will remain at last eternal, holding everything in its silence and its living gloom. There was no Time, only Space. (…) Where was he? – one tiny upright speck of flesh, less than an ear of wheat lost in the field. He could not bear it. On every side the immense dark silence seemed pressing him, so tiny a spark, into extinction, and yet, almost nothing, he could not be extinct. Night, in which everything was lost, went reaching out, beyond stars and sun. Stars and sun, a few bright grains, went spinning round for terror, and holding each other in embrace, there in a darkness that outpassed them all, and left them tiny and daunted. So much, and himself, infinitesimal, at the core a nothingness, and yet not nothing.

(…) She was the only thing that held him up, himself, amid all this. And she was gone, intermingled herself. He wanted her to touch him, have him alongside with her.

But no, he would not give in. Turning sharply, he walked towards the city’s gold phosphorescence. His fists were shut, his mouth set fast. He would not take that direction, to the darkness, to follow her. He walked towards the faintly humming, glowing town, quickly.” (p. 462-474)

It doesn’t hurt any more,

To be honest, I can’t feel anything any more.

Is it good? I can’t tell, I feel like crying but the tears are too stubborn to come out of my eyes and run down my cheeks.

Light another cigarette? Hum…not really, they run out and it’s too cold to go outside.

Yeah, here is still more comfortable than outside, but not for too long.

Soon the war will start, the pain will take place, for bad or for worse this numbness isn’t for ever.

Right now is all about emptiness and suspense, but the rage is inside, it’s taking its place and growing… I can’t wait for the war to start… to cause some pain.

I won’t simply take in the things you say, bend my head down and follow your rules.

No, I won’t give up without fighting. No, I won’t give up untill al my feelings are completely dried out from me.

I know, I’ve been missing for a while, a long, long while. But once again I intend to keep up to date with this little blog.

Althoug I’m going back to london, all the circumstances have changed. I’m going back to start a life with my beloved one. To become a couple and a person able to do things.

Like Patty Smith already said “welcome to your life, there’s no turning back”.

More details in the next posts…

(Frankfurt, Germany, 11.07.2008)

(O2 Wireless, Hyde Park, London, Uk, 04.07.2008)