unimportanthistory - Tumblr blog

unimportanthistory · 5 years

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Who am I

Everything around me is evaporating. My whole life, my memories, my imagination and its contents, my personality - it's all evaporating. I continuously feel that I was someone else, that I felt something else, that I thought something else. What I'm attending here is a show with another set. And the show I'm attending is myself.

Be careful: everything fades, everything vanishes. Something must remain of us.

My world falls apart, crumbles, “The centre cannot hold.” There is no integrating force, only the naked fear, the urge of self-preservation. I am afraid. I am not solid, but hollow. I feel behind my eyes a numb, paralysed cavern, a pit of hell, a mimicking nothingness. I never thought. I never wrote, I never suffered. I want to kill myself, to escape from responsibility, to crawl back abjectly into the womb. I do not know who I am, where I am going—and I am the one who has to decide the answers to these hideous questions. I long for a noble escape from freedom—I am weak, tired, in revolt from the strong constructive humanitarian faith which presupposes a healthy, active intellect and will. There is nowhere to go. Except if nowhere is the place you want to go.

But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defenseless that I couldn’t do it. It was as if what I wanted to kill wasn’t in that skin or the thin blue pulse that jumped under my thumb, but somewhere else, deeper, more secret, and a whole lot harder to get at.

I act and react, and suddenly I wonder, ‘Where is the girl that I was last year? Two years ago? What would she think of me now?

I tried to remember. I had the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. I was going mad by ricocheting in between. At times I had no interests. I had no interests in anything. I had no idea how I was going to escape. At least the others had some taste for life. They seemed to understand something that I didn't understand. Maybe I was lacking. It was possible. I often felt inferior. I just wanted to get away from them. But there was no place to go. Suicide? God, just more work. I felt like sleeping for five years but they wouldn't let me.

It begins to seem to me at such times that I am incapable of beginning a life in real life, because it has seemed to me that I have lost all touch, all instinct for the actual, the real; because at last I have cursed myself; because after my fantastic nights I have moments of returning sobriety, which are awful! Meanwhile, you hear the whirl and roar of the crowd in the vortex of life around you; you hear, you see, men living in reality; you see that life for them is not forbidden, that their life does not float away like a dream, like a vision; that their life is being eternally renewed, eternally youthful, and not one hour of it is the same as another; while fancy is so spiritless, monotonous to vulgarity and easily scared, the slave of shadows, of the idea, the slave of the first cloud that shrouds the sun... One feels that this inexhaustible fancy is weary at last and worn out with continual exercise, because one is growing into manhood, outgrowing one's old ideals: they are being shattered into fragments, into dust; if there is no other life one must build one up from the fragments. And meanwhile the soul longs and craves for something else! And in vain the dreamer rakes over his old dreams, as though seeking a spark among the embers, to fan them into flame, to warm his chilled heart by the rekindled fire, and to rouse up in it again all that was so sweet, that touched his heart, that set his blood boiling, drew tears from his eyes, and so luxuriously deceived him!

And so I ask myself: 'Where are your dreams?' And I shake my head and mutter: 'How the years go by!' And I ask myself again: 'What have you done with those years? Where have you buried your best moments? Have you really lived? Look how cold the world is growing. Some more years will pass, and after them will come gloomy solitude; then will come old age trembling on its crutch, and after it misery and desolation. Your fantastic world will grow pale, your dreams will fade and die and will fall like the yellow leaves from the trees. . . . You know it will be sad to be left alone, utterly alone, and to have not even anything to regret — nothing, absolutely nothing . . . For all that you have lost, all that, all was nothing, stupid, simple nullity, there has been nothing but dreams!

I am nothing.

I'll never be anything.

I couldn't want to be something.

Apart from that, I have in me all the dreams in the world.

I see my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Billur, the French translation student, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.

I am in my old room once more, for a little, and I am caught in musing - - how life is a swift motion, a continuous flowing, changing, and how one is always saying goodbye and going places, seeing people, doing things. Only in the rain, sometimes, only when the rain comes, closing in your pitifully small radius of activity, only when you sit and listen by the window, as the cold wet air blows thinly by the back of your neck - only then do you think and feel sick. You feel the days slipping by, elusive as slippery pink worms, through your fingers, and you wonder what you have for your eighteen years, and you think about how, with difficulty and concentration, you could bring back a day, a day of sun, blue skies and watercoloring by the sea. You could remember the sensual observations that made that day reality, and you could delude yourself into thinking - almost - that you could return to the past, and relive the days and hours in a quick space of time. But no, the quest of time past is more difficult than you think, and time present is eaten up by such plaintive searchings. The film of your days and nights is wound up tight in you, never to be re-run - and the occasional flashbacks are faint, blurred, unreal, as if seen through falling snow. Now, you begin to get scared. You don't believe in God, or a life-after-death, so you can't hope for sugar plums when your non-existent soul rises. You believe that whatever there is has got to come from man, and man is pretty creative in his good moments - pretty mature, pretty perceptive for his age - how many years is it, now? How many thousands? Yet, yet in this era of specialization, of infinite variety and complexity and myriad choices, what do you pick for yourself out of the grab-bag? Cats have nine lives, the saying goes. You have one; and somewhere along the thin, tenuous thread of your existence there is the black knot, the blood clot, the stopped heartbeat that spells the end of this particular individual which is spelled "I" and "You" and "Billur." So you wonder how to act, and how to be - and you wonder about values and attitudes. In the relativism and despair, in the waiting for the bombs to begin, for the blood to flow and trickle before your own eyes, you wonder with a quick sick fear how to cling to earth, to the seeds of grass and life. You wonder about your eighteen years, ricocheting between a stubborn determination that you've done well for your own capabilities and opportunities... And a fear that you haven't done well enough - You wonder if you've got what it takes to keep building up obstacle courses for your self, and to keep leaping through them, sprained ankle or not. Again the refrain, what have you for your eighteen years? And you know that whatever tangible things you do have, they cannot be held, but, too, will decompose and slip away through your coarse-skinned and death-rigid fingers. So you will rot in the ground, and so you say, what the hell? Who cares? But you care, and somehow you don't want to live just one life, which could be typed, which could be tossed off in a thumbnail sketch = "She was the sort of girl....” And end in twenty five words or less.

And then… Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing. I wanted the whole world or nothing. Just like that, I wanted all of you to myself or none of you at all.

Remember when I told you that I have spent all my life resisting the desire to end it. Do you remember your reaction? It suddenly seemed to me that I was lonely, that everyone was forsaking me and going away from me. God I feel sick when I think how vulnerable, how fragile, how bounded I made myself in the eyes of you. I feel sick when I remember I gave you the power to hurt me. Yes, I was infatuated with you. I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn't stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren't having any of those.

Maybe, maybe I’m in love with missing you more than I’m in love with you.

No, I don’t love; I don’t love anybody except myself. That is a rather shocking thing to admit. I have the selfish love of my mother. I have none of the plodding, practical love. . . . . I am, to be blunt and concise, in love only with myself, my puny being with its inadequate breasts and meager, thin talents. I am capable of affection for those who reflect my own world.

You’re dissolving. You are all dissolving. This city is dissolving. None of you matter any more. I don't know you, I have never known you and I am very pure. All that wine and those sticky kisses I had and the dirt that settled on my skin on the way back is turning into something pure. Isolation.

I know that if I were mad, after several days of confinement I should take advantage of any lapses in my madness to murder anyone, preferably a doctor, who came near me. At least this would permit me, like the violent, to be confined in solitary. Perhaps they’d leave me alone.

Here I am, a bundle of past recollections and future dreams, knotted up in a reasonably attractive bundle of flesh. I remember what this flesh has gone through; I dream of what it may go through. I record here the actions of optical nerves, of taste buds, of sensory perception. And, I think: I am but one more drop in the great sea of matter, defined, with the ability to realize my existence. Of the millions, I, too, was potentially everything at birth. I, too, was stunted, narrowed, warped, by my environment, my outcroppings of heredity. I, too, will find a set of beliefs, of standards to live by, yet the very satisfaction of finding them will be marred by the fact that I have reached the ultimate in shallow, two-dimensional living - a set of values. This loneliness will blur and diminish, no doubt, when tomorrow I plunge again into classes, into the necessity of studying for exams. But now, that false purpose is lifted and I am spinning in a temporary vacuum. At home I rest and play; but in there, where I work, the routine is momentarily suspended and I am lost. There is no living being on earth at this moment except myself. I could walk down the halls, and empty rooms would yawn mockingly at me from every side. God, but life is loneliness, despite all the opiates, despite the shrill tinsel gaiety of "parties" with no purpose, despite the false grinning faces we all wear. And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter - they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long. Yes, there is joy, fulfillment and companionship - but the loneliness of the soul in it's appalling self-consciousness, is horrible and overpowering.

I am left for a moment alone. Disorder, a broken wine glass on the floor, spilt wine, cigarette ends, fumes of drink and delirium in my brain…

Though the past was no better one feels as though it had somehow been better, and that life was more peaceful, that one was free from the black thoughts that haunt one now; that one was free from the gnawing of conscience — the gloomy, sullen gnawing which now gives me no rest by day or by night.

I grew to feel the tender skin of sensitive child-fingers thicken; to feel the sex organs develop and call loudly to the flesh; to become aware of school, exams (the very words as unlovely as the sound of chalk shrilling on the blackboard,) bread and butter, marriage, sex, compatibility, war, economics, death and self. What a pathetic blighting of the beauty and reality of childhood.

Then I have my old diaries. At nights like this I get the courage to read a few pages. Most are teared into pieces, burned, blowed, flushed… They did vanish, but something did, something did remain of me. And what remained is not the pages, it is me. Perhaps nothing vanishes and the word change is merely a deception. In a certain sense the past is far more real, or at any rate more stable, more resilient than the present. The present slips and vanishes like sand between the fingers, acquiring material weight, only in its recollection. Now and even tomorrow, is nearly yesterday and everything is stupid.

I’m eighteen (even older) now. I want to believe in the word “change”. I want to change. Perhaps my life is nothing but an image of this kind; perhaps I am doomed to retrace my steps under the illusion that I am exploring, doomed to try and learn what I simply should recognize, learning a mere fraction of what I have forgotten.

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unimportanthistory · 7 years

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UNABLE TO GO ANYWHERE, I TRAVELLED IN MY OWN IMAGINATION

I had this poem or quote going on my mind which goes like “It’s empty, dull, lonely... I don’t know how to describe it anymore. I can’t make it any better.” today.

Perhaps our first, youthful years are the punishments of our previous lives. Supposedly I was a master of sincraft. Look, I can even joke. I’m not scared. My evacuation day will come soon and I will leave. I’m just so scared that they will put me in another jail. This might even be the last thing I ever write. I can’t make it any better, I can’t make it any better... No, I’m not scared, I’m not scared. Now that I only sit and watch the minutes and people pass as I go nowhere, and not even my ill-fate is sure, I still have the oppurtunity of dreaming about far lands and far people and far destinies. Maybe I will have a dream from years ago, from where everything remained possible, from where dreams were still dreams, not choices.

Unable to go anywhere, I can always travel in my own imagination. Unable to change my past, I can always recreate the ill-minded people I have been with and pretend their words never was heard by me and never did hurt me. Unable to change people, I can always dream a chest I could rest my head and it would take away all the bad memories I ever had. Unable to change myself, I can always rest in the arms of sleep where I can dream freely, deeply and feel no remorse.

A few years ago when I was at Cecilia’s age, I watched the Virgin Suicides. Cecilia was the first to go and I’m still here. At the age of seventeen. Still staring at the letters. Still waiting for the same things, words or days to come.

Yet I’m having my hardest times trying to silence my mind. Dreaming is so often not very romantic, it actually is very tough, simply because when you go into your mind you have to discard every unwanted memory or image, and there’s no exit from there. I am lost in and therefore I am so unprotected, so fragile amongst all the pieces which are dark and irreversible.

***

Unable to go anywhere, the girls travelled in their imaginations to Siamese temples or passed an old man with a leafbroom tidying a moss-carpeted speck of Japan. We ordered the same catalogues and, flipping through the pages, we hiked through passes with the girls, stopping every now and then to help them with their backpacks, placing our hands on their warm, moist shoulders and gazing offat papaya sunsets. We drank tea with them in a water pavilion. We did whatever we wanted. Cecilia hadn’t died. She was a bride in Calcutta. The only way we could feel close to the girls was through these impossible trips which have scarred us forever, making us happier with dreams than wives. Collecting everything we could of theirs, the Lisbon girls wouldn’t leave our minds. But they were slipping away.

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