venerdì 16 settembre 2011

Storytelling: Where The Twain Shall Meet

A choice is a choice. When you take a path, you shall not stray away from it. That would be too easy and that would be a sign of wekness. And weakness brings to self destruction and failure. One shall be stern and merciless, with himself more than anyone else. The way to survive is being made of stone and steel and to point the sharpest blade towards your own heart, to push it in and go forward, ignoring the pain and the fear, until your whole body goes numb and your arm is steady enough to go all the way.

It sounded so pretentious and so similar to the type of rubbish all the fake nihilist hipster would love to ramble about but it had a seed of truth in it, like anything else. He knew that. He hated to use clichées or dogmatic phrases to describe the choices he made. He thought that anyone who described his own actions using a set of universal rules or making them a "way", was delusional and despiucable. Which meant most people were. Still this was true. He ahated "Codes" and "principles". But he knew that everything he had done up to that point in his life after his accident was driven by the idea of lacking sympathy, especially towards himself.

He was scum. He did wrong things. he hurt people. He abused himself and others. So he punished himself, by cutting off everything that gave him the possibility to keep on being that way. He did not only get sober, he started a cleansing of his own soul. It wasnt about renouncing dope, drugs and self gratification, it was about realizing that all his life had been lived with the purpose of serving a lie, and that lie was that he was a worthy person.

Psychiatrists, with their drug peddling ways would call that "self deprecation" but it was the truth. He had made up excuses for his own failure. Family abuse that wasnt real abuse. It was all a gigantic series of well constructed stories that hid behind layers of flashy folklore, the fact that he was a lazy pointless person who loved to win over people with his raconteur skills but ended up being afraid of them eventually hurting them so he never developed a serious, real relationship. Who never committed to anything because failure was frightenign and pain would make him crumble.

So one day, after hearing that sound that a lot of people his age heard before dying, the sound of steel screaming and an engine disappearing, as he was being surrounded by sirens and while the taste of blood, vomit and alcohol mixed in his mouth, he decided he would go out and save himself. And the world around him.

He cut people away. All of them. Some noticed , most didnt , a lot more just forgot.

It was impressive how changing a phone number and disappearing in isolation, could just make people feel like you did not really exist anymore. Of course, memories lasted, up to some point. But everyone is forgotten because everyone is dispensable. No matter how good you are, someone out there is better than you and they will fix the holes your flaws left, so that your absence feels like a blessing.

He just secluded himself in a small house. Food he got from a small shop, mostly junk. A laptop. No phone. No tv. Nothing. He would stay there until he would feel like going back to living, maybe in a different place, with a clean slate. With no one really remembering or knowing his fuck ups. That way he would be free, away from all that baggage he put on himself. Away.

The food seemed to never change for a while, he could eat very little, and he almost didnt leave the house. He found people that kept him talking through his laptop. A web of people who had problems like his own. That fucked up as he did. He kept talking them and they never seemed to lack time. They were all victims or perpetrators of some trauma. It was an ocean of wounds where they just fixed each other's pain with words of comfort. It was peaceful and they sucked him in their world, healing him.

At times, darkness would wrap the house and he wouyld feel fear and loneliness. His pèaranoia would seep in and he would feel like he was being watched. Judged. Or like someone was trying to reach him and snap him back to his old world. It scared him. But it went away.

And, with time, he just felt like going back. He felt reconciled with the world. he felt like he had paid his dues. He could go on. All his far away friends were sad to see him go. He promised he would keep in touch, but they seemded to all know it was a lie. No one ever keeps in touch. you move on with your life and whats lost is lost forever. Like sand in an hourglass., it doesnt go backwards. They all would move on at some point. It was how it was supposed to be.

So he took a deep breathe and walked away.


The night her son crashed his car, the woman woke up panicking and couldnt fall asleep. until she received the call from the police, she felt something was wrong. It sounded like a cliché and a myth, but from the first moment they took him out of her when he was born, she knew exactly what he felt. She knew. But as the years went by and as her grasp on him loosened, she just wasnt able to do anything for him. She knew he was broken. But she couldnt fix him and yet loved him so much it felt like having her heart ripped away from her over and over gain and never being able to get it back.

When she saw him, comatose in a hospital bed, it just broke her. He had taken pills and alcohol and just started driving, until he passed out and crashed. Buiit he waqs alive when the car's parts broke him. He suffered. The doctors didnt say it but she knew. She felt it on every scar on that young body of his. Her baby, so sweet and so old and hardened. So lonely even when he was surrounded by people. If only. If only. She couldnt stop hearing that in her head, liek a ring piuercing her brain. She was out of tears or fear. She just wanted him to either come back or go.

They said he was locked in some place, somewhere inside his brain. He didnt feel the pain. But he wouldnt necessarily wake. It was a coin toss.

She looked at him, and caressed his cheek, like she used to do when he was small and he teared up until he was out of breath. It seemed to calm him back then. Please baby, come back. Or let go. Please.

And suddenly the monitor started beeping. One long beep. A flatline. He was gone. She felt her soul shatter. Why did it have to hurt so bad?

All in her head was silent. And nothing could be said anymore.

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