Memory & Forgetfulness



I have my bag packed. I can hear the shower water pouring, accumulating in the bath tub. I look at the empty apartment. The vacant couch, the piles of books towering half way to the ceiling, the temple of CDs and DVDs. These objects don’t make me want to remember the past week. These objects are not laden with the traffic of memories. They hold nothing. They are just a bundle without a substance.

The sound of pouring water stops. I know I cannot leave without saying goodbye to the only person I’ve seen for a week. I wait for her to come out but she never does, as if she paused time when she closed the faucet. As I stand outside the bathroom door, for the first time in a week I feel like a stranger in this apartment, in her home. It is not a place I belong to. I entered this place so full of hope. I thought that the road had finally gotten me home after prolonged seasons of winter in which nature was painted with different shades of the dullest grey. But it was a spark of euphoria; now time has halted for me to make the decision, to choose if I want to step back onto that ragged stale road of constant wandering; that road of loss and confusion; that road without identity which I loathe.

The silence in the bathroom becomes the silence of still-time, and I become afraid of her stillness; deathlike silence reigns. The knob does not screech as I turn it. The door does not squeak as I open it.

Vapour. Haze.  Steam rises from the hot water in the bathtub and sheathes the mirrors and the walls with blurry droplets. I do not enter, but I can see her lying, floating on the surface of the water in the bathtub. Her body is still and her breasts emerge like waves caught in a photograph. Her hair sticks to her body like leeches sucking off the rotten blood flowing in her veins. But she’d have to be drained completely if she hopes of being toxin-free, to be saved. Her eyes are closed, giving her the solemn image of a statue, battling time and winning eternity.

The still thought-image which she projects forces me to put down my bag and go to her. I walk into the sauna-like bathroom. Time is still paused; my moving body collides with the droplets. It seems as though I have dug my way with perseverance to get to her sober statue. I raise her head with my hand and I remove the leeches off of her body. She opens her eyes and I remember one week ago, the abominations we committed to fuel the fiery desire we shared for each other. I see the beginning through her eyes, and I sense no regret. Her wide black eyes give me comfort in their serene depths. I feel like a key that has found its door, a narrator that has found his voice. It’s all in the depth of her eyes in which I drown, and while drowning in her eyes she speaks to me; she tells me all I need to know, and I see all I need to see: moments not intended for me.

I stand up and leave her still body. I leave her as a still-image imprinted in my mind. A memory seeking continuity, an image seeking movement.



Returning from a long absence, this alien world feels like a museum. I walk with fearful eyes through its halls and I stare at the portraits which look very familiar. It is the familiarity which frightens me. I left a vibrant city and have now returned to an unchanged city, a city of the dead, and I search for her, the one who I intentionally left as a still-image. I return to give her continuity and movement.

I make my way through the proverbial streets. People dress the same; people act the same, as if they had no tomorrow. The daunting reality of sameness wraps itself around me. My wandering is transformed into a fall. A heaviness pushes me down, but I persevere and channel my way through the immutable roads of this city. This is no labyrinth. I know where she is.

I revisit the image in my mind. I see her in the bathtub, her hair like leeches. I remove the leeches and graze my fingers on her flesh as if my fingers were magic limbs which close lacerations. Her breasts stand like still waves splashing on a shore. I let my hands surf on the waves and they reach the shore, the rough rug of sand which was my home.

I find myself at the door of her apartment.

I knock and the door opens. It does not screech. I step inside, the water is pouring down. Steam comes out of the bathroom and my desire is indelible. Relaxed, I step in the bathroom. I see her through the semi-transparent wall of steam, sitting in the bathtub, her head between her legs, and her arms trying to wrap themselves around her; she is in front of me now as she was when I left.

The water stops flowing; a bell tolls and time stops. Nothing moves anymore. The past is fixed and I find myself trapped in what my memory wants me to see. I find myself trapped in the past.

I left her as an image so that she could persist in my memory. When I left, I killed her. I froze her in time and did not allow her to move on, and now I’m faced with the conundrum of memory and forgetfulness. If I allow forgetfulness to creep through, I will seize to know her; she would become someone different; she would become a stranger. If I allow memory to persist, she’ll be unreal and as dead as a monument, as dead as the city which I have passed through.

I try to step forward. I cannot.

I try to back away. I cannot.

A decision has to be made. To forget and lose all, or to remember and wallow in decayed grave.

The distance between me and her hurts me, but I cannot stop staring. I have no idea how she’ll feel if I allow myself a tinge of forgetfulness. I have no idea how this still-image would move. Will she laugh and break the heaviness of my absence? Or will she move around in circles like a prey around its predator, examining and waiting to strike with guilt.

The answer is within reach and it’s a choice I’ve made a long time ago, before I left, when she whispered in my ear. She told me about a moment not intended for me, a moment not in my memory, a moment I am promised to witness upon my return.

The still image changes. She changes; her eyes brighten up; she shines and she looks at me. These eyes, they utter the truth in silence; art knows more than the mind can ever know for truth is found in the hidden places which art draws. The silent moving-image speaks: It is not okay to remember the way you did. I am alive. You left me with emptiness which did not allow me to laugh. The theatre of absence leaves us all wondering about our failing existence. You isolated me like a single frame of a long film. Your froze me in time and did not allow me to grow. And you thought you knew me. You left me without laughter and melancholy camped over me, and this city drained me with its stillness which you incurred.

I blush. I’m out of words.  She frightens me with her sudden strength, her sudden life, her sudden sublime beauty. Such beauty can only be reciprocated by a miracle which I cannot give. That moment which was not intended for me; her movement after stillness was that of a strike of guilt. I have returned to a city of the dead, but I do not know her anymore. She has changed. I never knew her. I have changed.

I turn my back on her and on the distance, hoping that the other end is closer.

My travelling lost me my only home.


Nothing as it seems


Nothing is as it seems.

I am just an ordinary man. The infant next to me is just an ordinary dead baby. Raped and drugged mother. A hopeless situation. I am just an ordinary doctor. I do not fight for lives because my opponent does not exist. Who am I fighting? The mother had white horns on her forehead. Flowers replaced her genitals and I understood why we bury the dead six feet under.

Everything is a simulation, a bad representation, a murdering image, a very sharp or very blurry mirror of everything else.

Nothing is as I dream.

Feelings, emotions, ecstasy, all end up being twisted by Fate’s irony and I call them my Passion, and they crown me as their king. I reign over them miserably. They are not real.

There was never anything called real.

The individual is a myth.

All parodies lack humor.

All secrets are known.

I am known to all.

No one ever experiences me and I always experience everyone.

No one is as they seem.

Live every moment as if it were your last.

He had a lot to say. He had a lot of nothing to say. We’ll miss him. We are gonna miss him. They all said.

Live every moment as if you were going to live it again and again and again. To begin again and again and again. To end again and again and again. A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.

She told us almost a century ago that Sugar is not a vegetable.

Today I know that we cannot digest fibers. This means that if you swallow corn as they are, they will appear in your shit the same way they entered your mouth. Your mouth is just the other end of your anus. Don’t suck too hard from either end.

The good carpenter suffered for the friend who died after him. The carpenter never finished a table. Two days later I saw horses in the city among cars, blindfolded, shitting. I did not see corn.

Two lovers make one bread. He said that one craves your mouth, your voice, your hair. He said you are the only one that can nourish me. He said that you can show me something real. I saw you, I did not crave your mouth, your voice, your hair and I lost faith in my lover.

She let me watch porn videos so I can do the same for her. I gasped every time I watched. She slept and I was petrified every time I slept with her.

Disney land is full of adults. The ‘real’ world is full of little children. Where would you rather be? Where would you rather live?

What flower? What rock, what smoke showed you were I live? You came and no one will ever love as we did. It’s ancient and it is extinct. Gone and empty. Only a memory. Feels more like an illusion. We Love. We start to love the love. We start to fear the love and love the love. We end up fearing love and its subject.

Did you not sacrifice your son? Why are your hands all bloody? But I forgot that your hands fed the roots, but now I see your fingertips bloom, he said. It is natural peace. The peace which passeth understanding. It is all about the rebirth. When the light was moist, I felt the drop of dew on my tongue and cheek. When it entered my eye I saw your son in fear still alive, and you in love, dead. I bowed down to a statue and your love accused me. Your son’s fear empathized with me. We fear. We start to fear the fear. We start to love the fear and fear the fear. We end up loving fear and its subject

Furious fear and sorrowful love. All passionate, crucifixes. It is not real.

We are all living in one big museum. Buy and sell. Live and act and perform. The world around us is one big Mausoleum.

Nothing is as it seems.

Nothing is as I dream.

Nothing is real.