Saturday, 10 December 2011

Morning, evening - First Days 3


La rumba del fin del mundo by ? on Grooveshark
26.03.2011

I’m chilling out at Højbro Plads. I have a doctor visit at five, the ultrasound of liver, it’s been bothering me lately. I’ve still got few hours, but I went out earlier, so I could be alone for a while, have some time to think, to breath. Last few weeks were really stressful, and I can feel that my mood is changing, I’m too sensitive, too touchy, too anxious. Well, let’s try to find a peace in this chaos. It’s not easy, and the health problems are not helping. I started to smoke again. Right now not too much, but I will probably smoke more. Whenever I’m in the transition, I pick up smoking. It helps me to relive the tension.

I like to be in a crowd. I feel like being one of many. It’s easier to distance myself from myself. I look at young people – loud, self-confident, laughing without reflection, but enjoying (I'm not criticizing, youth has its rights). Also I’m looking for the grey heads. They are reconciled with the passing of time, and it calms me down. I feel safe in the company of this simplest of wisdoms – the one arising from the old age, from the awareness of being in the last chapter. It doesn’t require any special level of understanding. It’s enough to listen to your inner voice. Right now I’m in the transition from the youth which ignores the reality of passing time, to the maturity, preceding the shy, lost old age.

I had to move to the sunshine, it’s cold, after all it’s still march. I’m sitting by the fountain (the one with cranes and frogs), someone dropped a glass in the café (jingling, musical sound), pretty brunette with a full, shapely rump and high heels slowly passed by, a Gypsy lady asked me for some change, a smell of garlic from the kebab kiosk, the dirty, tired rastas are laying on the street and eating something ugly, asking pedestrians for cigarettes, two young, sad gays are holding hands and whispering secrets to each other, the pigeons are hopping to get something from me, but I have nothing, sorry guys.
Despite of the gloves my fingers are frozen, pretty soon I’ll have to hide in the library.
The dirty rastas have got up, put on the Green Peace jackets and started to hunt people with their survey forms. And I thought they were street urchins. What a disappointment. Well, maybe they are, but only part time?

* * *

I’m sitting at Ryparken station, waiting for Tania. We are going to the show, Ruth Anna is going to perform with her group (I’ve got no idea what).
It’s dark already, the trains are going past, one by one, there are lights of starting airplanes in the sky, on the right a big football pitch; blurred figures are running with an invisible ball, their shouts are echoing in the dark, blending with the train announcements. Sharp wind, my face hurts, I pull up the collar, pull the hood over my face and keep writing.
In the change, in the never-ending journeys, maladjustment, the unquenched urge to seek something better, we can grasp the flash of what life is. Constant transformation, struggle between life and death, endless kaleidoscope of roles. All this change means loneliness. We are always trying to fill the empty spot, attempting to cure ourselves by making friends, creating families and stuff, forgetting that we are just passengers…
It’s important to be in motion – in this way we can stay focused on the important things. But here is a problem – are we objective or biased in our judgment? And what objectivity is anyway?

The Tania’s train is pulling into station. See you, man.

No comments:

Post a Comment