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Regarding The Pain Of Others
I have to fall in love with someone else, marry someone else, maybe he will have children, grown children, so I don’t have to have children will not be such a tragedy and I will not be in love with a ghost like I have been for the last twelve years. But you, your memory Robert is so alive and it’s like rain. It doesn’t hurt and I can still see you smile and all I can do is ask myself why it won’t go away.
I mean, it’s not like boys haven’t come to the house (beautiful boys with beautiful hair and beautiful eyes and all they want to do is talk and talk and talk, all I have to do is listen, which is the easiest thing in the world to do with people who are in love with themselves and all I want to do is escape back to the past, back to you, back to the streets of Johannesburg, that winter, that autumn).
All I can think about is you all the time now. I’m not the same and you’re not the same and you have a life and I don’t. You can stay up all night and I need routine. You have a family. I desire one. You won’t talk to me even in my dreams I try to forget the time when my life was perfect and I was fine and I had a friend who made me laugh and forget that I was sick , tired of being sad, tired of being different, lonely. Have you ever wished for an ordinary life? I was never a good girl. I was never the girl who would ever be good enough for you, good enough for your family, good enough for your image. It’s fun when you love someone, all of them, and I mean all the details come together and I’ve had a long time to think about those details. Oh, the planning that went into it, how it all came together. Marry someone else, that was a good idea, but I didn’t want to do that, because who would put up with me, with the suicidal disease, who would know when I should take it and when I should take it, that I should take long, invigorating walks and hot baths, have a cat or a dog.
You must have been absolutely extraordinary, absolutely extraordinarily perfect, charismatic, wise and beautiful, sensitive and fiercely intelligent, brutal, violent, aggressive, domineering, an introverted leader (oh men can be beautiful too, many things, fine things) to have left such an impression, muse, on me, my psychological frame, on one so young, so inexperienced. I really don’t want to love anyone else. There. I said it. You will just have to find that I now appear and then disappear from your life from the pages of books, from poetry, from newspapers and magazines, disappearing quickly from sight, from landscapes that I have created in my own imagination , painted there as if you are my property, if only for a while, and that is more than enough for me. You see, in a short period of time, months, you really gave the world to me and no one has ever done that for me in my life (I’m not that young anymore and I’m tired of waiting for someone else to come around and repeat what you did), usually I’m just the quiet, invisible, the Outsider, the introvert, and that was always fine with me. I don’t want you to see me like this. Times have changed and I have changed with the times.
I had no idea what lust meant, being the other sex, feminine and beautiful (all those words just sound so lovely don’t they). I was so young when I met you. I was very cowardly, didn’t follow my instincts all the time, wasn’t very cool, didn’t have courage, but I never forgot you. I want you to know even now after all this time. I don’t want you to see me like this. I am not strong enough to face the world on my own again, to take the world on its head. Have you noticed yet how I speak with less arrogance than I did twelve years ago? I have learned so much, mostly from you. I learned a lot from you, you know, and there were times when you were kind, very kind and patient with me. I’m tired of trying to love the world so much. Sometimes also worrying too much because the world is so cruel and dangerous full of greedy sharks, hungry lions and tigers but I still dream and some nights I dream about you but more I think about the memory I still have about you. And the memory is brilliant. The memory I have of you is so bright it burns in my eyes and it hurts to breathe (funny how the simple and simple things in life that happen to you when people are nice to you, makes breathing painful). I must need you somehow. Isn’t it the subconscious talking when you dream? It is as if I have inherited something wonderful from an otherworldly place when I think of you.
Of course I only know how to hurt people not to love them because that’s all I’ve come to know about life, family life, the planet, the environment around me, but plants and animals are different in a way and I I think you know that too. Once I wanted to be perfect, when I was younger, when I wasn’t sick, the wheel, the fine and intricate web of my brain’s navigational compass, all the fine threads that came within a breadth of not being lovingly taken off. I didn’t know what the meaning of the word love was until I met you twelve years ago. Love is like driftwood. When placed in the craftsman’s hands, it is precious cargo. If it wasn’t for you, I still wouldn’t know much about the world. I didn’t want to know what love and independence is, how strong a man can be when he takes his position in the workplace day in and day out, slaving away for a wife, his children and family, his community and what’s at stake , if he loses it all. I would still be sad and lonely if I hadn’t met you. I would still feel vulnerable among all the nice girls shooting up around me with their feathery perfumed hair. I have lungs. I have wings. I have uncovered knowledge and intuition and walked towards the light in the blue sky. Yes, I have a dose of light in my heart, a raw energy. I am a new woman. Look at me now. I write novels. What is love? I look at my parents sleeping in separate beds and I see love. I look at my brother and his pregnant girlfriend and I see love. Once you were mine, how could I ever forget you, your smile, your laugh, your hunched shoulders, your neck, your dark, dark hair unexpectedly when you turned to look at me.
You told Louise how I made you tea. What is love anyway? Does it mean taking care of someone who needs care, who is sick, who needs love, who needs treatment? This is enough. Having you at a safe distance is enough where you can’t see how I’m wasting away. Where you can’t see the dance of a nervous breakdown in my nerves, dopamine and serotonin flying away in the center of my brain, the secret diary of lithium (the magic salt), of how it once lined my blood vessels, the interior of my physical body until I gave up, surrendered, quit. Where you can’t hear what I can hear, the singing of booming voices that want to crush my spirit and where you can’t see what I can, the hallucinations, moving Technicolor bright lights, and everything I want to do , is sleeping it off or reading a book or soaking in a hot bath while watching the bathroom mirror steam up and my hair getting damp on the back of my neck. How I miss the old me, but I often ask myself, who was she, this dream catcher, dreamy Lolita, skinny, skeletons in the closet? What did she understand of the world around her, was it a peaceful paradise? I’m ashamed now. Please don’t look at me. I don’t think I could take it, my heart was x-rayed. I just wanted to write this down to let you know that someone very far away is thinking of you, dreaming of you.
It’s your atmosphere and I don’t belong. Cowards don’t belong here, and the sick, the raging lunatics who can’t string words together when they’re hypomanic. I’ve gotten used to not being around people, crowds, foot traffic, rush hour, cars. I much prefer rivers, lakes, streams, pollution (inhaling the ash, cigarette or smoke from the factories, the industrial side of the city where they make cars and tires, where there is a chocolate factory and an ice cream maker side by side , you see, this is where I live now, quiet and composed). I believe in God now, in writing, my mother’s wisdom, my father’s words and deeds, so I honor them. I believe in going to church and reading my Bible. I’m up all night. I no longer watch horror movies and the dream world of the dead or old movies about zombies. They scare me. I don’t interact with people. They scare me. Their ‘desire’ scares me. How they want to give up their inhibitions. How they have the audacity to believe that they have the right to live without limits, that they have no faults, how they can do what they like and that they think they are beautiful because they are loved when no one told them first. You are beautiful because you are loved. Many have waited all my life to hear these words.
I don’t believe in love stories, but I watch them anyway. Sometimes I am moved to tears. Sometimes I laugh because I connect with the characters. I can relate to them even though I have only been in love once in my short life. Once is enough to get you through a lifetime. Now you’ve moved on and I’ve moved on. Your ghost is still here. You have people-in-which-a-world-waits. I have ‘my little family’ (abstract, performance, my characters and the metaphors in my poems, of course my library, all my books that I have collected over the years). Instead of you, I have Rilke. I much prefer the sound of silence after the role that conflict has played in my life, my childhood, my personality development. I much prefer the sound of rain, nature, birds. I much prefer the sound of silence in my bedroom, in all the interior of the house, and if the television is to be on, it must be on the news channel, but low so that it can feed my subconscious, but not loud so that it makes noise. I have learned to control my emotions. I know how to sit still in a room, in a dream position, but not dreaming, rather meditating. Meditating on a mantra or chakra and realizing what drives these intensifying factors of humanity, social cohesion in communities in southern Africa, what is really the meaning of sensing the accumulation of loss, the initial conflicting emotions that arise in your head when you experience sadness, the serious personality, the relevant opinion and of course the basis of the behavior of a person (the readjusted personality) who has had to work very hard to get his life under control.
Robert, I’ve seen you from afar my whole life and it finally feels like a huge weight off my shoulders, a weight that I really should never have been allowed to carry in the first place. You never came to me. What does it mean to long for company? At best you tolerated me. I can see it now with clarity and I can smile too. You were a tracked dream, a psychological invention that I remembered when I needed direction toward a goal. You don’t love me, not like that, in ‘that way’. Seriously, what was I thinking, so young, so brave, with already these unbalanced patterns gathering, sharpening, weaving a magic spell inside the heat, the light in my mind’s eye wasting your time? Actually just being a terrible waste of everyone’s time. Time goes. Memory changes in an instant. Here’s the thing. I worshiped you. I’ve dreamed of you all my life. And every night you are a different person. You have a different name, face and I meet you in a different place. And every morning I brush it all off, put away the old as if it were dust.
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