I tried to fall asleep, I really did. My head kept aching as if it had been sobbing for three days straight, but my cheeks weren’t wet. The window was cold enough, but not cold enough to ease the pain. I could feel my brain freeze and my body shake. Was it due to the freezing window or due to my current psychological status?
I felt my soul being ripped appart and I felt numbness take over me.
Was I dead?
No, the flight attendant smiled at me, mentioning something about us already being on the ground. I stared for a while trying to absorb the newly given information. Well, according to the smile on her face, unless she was some kind of masochist or sadist we landed safely.
So what I do next: I throw my messenger bag over my shoulder and head outside. I hate the whole small plane thing. I hate everything about airports until I get in the air. Only then my hatred slowly forgets about it's life meaning. If it has a life actually, it does. It’s like a parasite drinking my blood, taking away my years of sanity and my free time when I could be calmer, express light emotions, instead of shouting out swears in my head or aloud. Other than the calm moments when I am in the air, after my hatred goes to sleep, I’d burn the whole place down.
Maybe I should have been a pilot? But until I’d get into the air I’d go all mad and crash us into whatever my eyes would fall on. Maybe that’s why I don’t want to take the risk. I don’t want to survive that, get judged and get accused by mothers, fathers, children and other relatives as a soulless bastard and terrorist. But then maybe I do have an anger management.
“All creative people are insane.”
Was I creative?
Was the sketchbook nearly filled with endless sketches, a key to insanity? Was it like the document the agreement, like selling my soul to Satan in exchange for creativity?
I walked on, chewing on the thought of Satan and creativity. I watch everything pass by, the passport controls, the wait for my luggage and I walk outside with the arrivals’ sign shining brightly, like a fake sun, above me.
Like I said, there was no fancy card, there was no wife or future-wife-to-be of mine. And certainly and thank God, no snotty running around kids. But then I stopped. Why did the adjective snotty fill up my head? Now that I think of it, I dislike nearly all small children besides my younger sister which I loved a lot. Well, no beloved of mine stood here and that seemed poetic and seemed to catch my attention as the next topic. On top of everything didn’t I just have a break-up?
Great. Fantastic.
I felt as if I was a Carrie Bradshaw moving into New York to freaking find the love of her life in other words, Mr. Big. Yes, my sister was a fan, a really rabid one actually and I would spend eating cereal with a re-tell of yesterday’s episode.
Can’t say that I was missing what was going on there and whatever made Mr. Big and Carrie reunite, but then who else cares asides from rabid females, no wait, I had a friend which liked Sex and The City, I still wonder why, but then maybe I don’t. I seriously don’t over stress myself with that weird addiction of his. What I miss is my younger sister bragging about how much she likes the Mr. Big and Carrie pairing.
Then the big moment arrives. I step out of the airport feeling a light breeze hit me straight in the face. I didn’t close my eyes, I simply looked forward, as poetic as it sounded. Was the wind a greeting or a friendly come back where you came from? No matter what it meant I walk on gazing from side to side with curiosity. I mean I was in another city, wasn’t I? That was reasonable and a rather regular and banal reaction even if I felt broken. Was I?
It was morning.
Mornings are good. I feel easy and relaxed on mornings. All it takes even after a sleepless night is that small breath of chilly morning air and that’s it, it's a cure, placebo to me. Maybe that was the easy yet complicated, twisted answer to why I relaxed and liked mornings. Chilled out? Maybe. My thoughts still asleep. All of them holding hands, and an innocent smile after yesterday's hangover.
Well on top of everything the not so communicative taxi driver which let me chew on my own thoughts and emotions. I was deeply thankful for that as we passed endless city streets, buildings, schools, universities, museums, shops, malls, cinemas, parks and every single thing you can actually find everywhere.
Several people were lazily scattered on the streets, yawning and clearly in the need of a cup of coffee if they weren’t sipping one right now. All of their eyes seemed either focused, concentrated on the awaiting unknown day while others couldn’t stop yawning, nearly spilling their coffee as they realize the time and actually begin running. I watched several female friends look at each other before running on their designer heels, maybe Manolos, maybe not. I never was interested in asking what label were my girlfriend’s shoes. Saying that I wanted her to wear Converse or Manolos or both would be egoistic.
What did I want in a girl? I looked down at my appearance. My regulars were the mossy green scarf and Converse. Well, if I felt happy I’d take that white shirt, one of those identical three I loved. White seemed to ease me too, but only in shirts, no matter long sleeved, short, button up, polo or wool.
Why was I this mad all the time? It was like I was another self. Then in the evening my madness would break free, grab that canvas, throw paint at it chaotically, leaving my morning self to fix it. The thing was it wasn’t just canvases; it was my life as well. My life would give me a blank white canvas and then I’d go angry, annoyed at the world and throw red, blood, blue, sorrow, green, sick, yellow, insanity and then press my palm against it, rubbing it on the remaining white spots with paint dripping off my fingertips, like blood.
Like blood. I shivered as I compared paint to that.
Like blood. I loved using that in the evenings. It was like I was cutting them, life, the players which played alongside me. Then I’d cut them and paint with them as I liked. Like a master. They were just paint, the insignificant drops arranged in puddles around my feet. I could do with them as I pleased. Like the blood of the victim as the knife cuts their flesh. The blood and the future in your hands on the tip of the cold knife you hold. Waiting for whatever action but demanding more blood, but only if you please. You’re the master, only you want more power and power keeps calling out earning for further actions.
More blood dripping, the skin drenched in other people's faith, sins, innocence and life long lost at birth, as the first exhale came. When the exchange of sanity was fulfilled for a greater deed.
The canvas was going to be blank again as it always was. A rush of excitement ran through my body, taking me fully, that I felt hot. I opened the window, feeling wind ruffle my messy dyed blonde hair. It wasn’t cold.
Was I scared?
Was I depressed?
Was I mad?
Endless thoughts began running through my head, as I closed my eyes. I felt like an overloaded computer ready to explode due to some unknown technical problem.Virus? Maybe. Was my madness a virus? Killing me from the inside, shredding the canvas little by little, strip by strip.
Stop, stop, stop.
I echoed that through my brain, trying to get hold of myself. I pressed my palm against my forehead taking deep breaths. I was tired. Exhausted. I opened my eyes seeing everything flash in front of my eyes in a blur, like back at the airport. Everything was a heavy blur, as my breathing got faster. I wanted to go… home.
Home?
The first thing which appeared in my head was my home with my mum’s meat pie, dad’s excited shouts while his favorite team won, my sister’s endless issues of Vogue lying around everywhere in a chaotic way and my room which reeked of oil paint due to the fact that I would always forget to put it away. Oil paint. I moaned as I wanted to feel the unmistakable smell and feel the rough fabric pulled onto the wooden frame. Brushes, I even had some in my messenger bag. I took one out feeling its softness stroke my fingers in a calming way. I let my finger run down wood, metal and the hair shaped oval, which still seemed untouchable despite the many times I used it.
I put it back, feeling my hand touch a known rectangular shaped item. My mobile.
Was that home? In the soothing roughly pressed buttons? I tried to keep my mind blank so that I wouldn’t get other homesick memories in my head, to flood it so that it wouldn't work, crack open and drench the world, the humans, crying for help for Superman, for the rest of the day. Isn’t this what I wanted? But then I stopped on my thoughts. Was I homesick? Did I want to go back? Did I want to go backwards turning away from the future I always wanted to have?
Well, my mobile was dead. Or I thought so after I managed to turn it on. It kept vibrating for a while before I could open the endless texts from my own worried mother, who was rather mad due to the fact that I went to the airport by myself, not bothering to wake them up. Actually, I had no intention to. I did not want to see my own parents cry a freaking river with my sister holding her tears as she’d describe everything to her latest boyfriend via texts again.
I opened several texts from the friends I left behind. Or was I the one who was left behind? I didn’t bother and opened them, smiling at suggestions like ‘get a hot gf’, ‘buy yourself more white shirts’ and so on. I quickly texted them, trying to get back to my sightseeing.
Chapter 2
I felt my soul being ripped appart and I felt numbness take over me.
Was I dead?
No, the flight attendant smiled at me, mentioning something about us already being on the ground. I stared for a while trying to absorb the newly given information. Well, according to the smile on her face, unless she was some kind of masochist or sadist we landed safely.
So what I do next: I throw my messenger bag over my shoulder and head outside. I hate the whole small plane thing. I hate everything about airports until I get in the air. Only then my hatred slowly forgets about it's life meaning. If it has a life actually, it does. It’s like a parasite drinking my blood, taking away my years of sanity and my free time when I could be calmer, express light emotions, instead of shouting out swears in my head or aloud. Other than the calm moments when I am in the air, after my hatred goes to sleep, I’d burn the whole place down.
Maybe I should have been a pilot? But until I’d get into the air I’d go all mad and crash us into whatever my eyes would fall on. Maybe that’s why I don’t want to take the risk. I don’t want to survive that, get judged and get accused by mothers, fathers, children and other relatives as a soulless bastard and terrorist. But then maybe I do have an anger management.
“All creative people are insane.”
Was I creative?
Was the sketchbook nearly filled with endless sketches, a key to insanity? Was it like the document the agreement, like selling my soul to Satan in exchange for creativity?
I walked on, chewing on the thought of Satan and creativity. I watch everything pass by, the passport controls, the wait for my luggage and I walk outside with the arrivals’ sign shining brightly, like a fake sun, above me.
Like I said, there was no fancy card, there was no wife or future-wife-to-be of mine. And certainly and thank God, no snotty running around kids. But then I stopped. Why did the adjective snotty fill up my head? Now that I think of it, I dislike nearly all small children besides my younger sister which I loved a lot. Well, no beloved of mine stood here and that seemed poetic and seemed to catch my attention as the next topic. On top of everything didn’t I just have a break-up?
Great. Fantastic.
I felt as if I was a Carrie Bradshaw moving into New York to freaking find the love of her life in other words, Mr. Big. Yes, my sister was a fan, a really rabid one actually and I would spend eating cereal with a re-tell of yesterday’s episode.
Can’t say that I was missing what was going on there and whatever made Mr. Big and Carrie reunite, but then who else cares asides from rabid females, no wait, I had a friend which liked Sex and The City, I still wonder why, but then maybe I don’t. I seriously don’t over stress myself with that weird addiction of his. What I miss is my younger sister bragging about how much she likes the Mr. Big and Carrie pairing.
Then the big moment arrives. I step out of the airport feeling a light breeze hit me straight in the face. I didn’t close my eyes, I simply looked forward, as poetic as it sounded. Was the wind a greeting or a friendly come back where you came from? No matter what it meant I walk on gazing from side to side with curiosity. I mean I was in another city, wasn’t I? That was reasonable and a rather regular and banal reaction even if I felt broken. Was I?
It was morning.
Mornings are good. I feel easy and relaxed on mornings. All it takes even after a sleepless night is that small breath of chilly morning air and that’s it, it's a cure, placebo to me. Maybe that was the easy yet complicated, twisted answer to why I relaxed and liked mornings. Chilled out? Maybe. My thoughts still asleep. All of them holding hands, and an innocent smile after yesterday's hangover.
Well on top of everything the not so communicative taxi driver which let me chew on my own thoughts and emotions. I was deeply thankful for that as we passed endless city streets, buildings, schools, universities, museums, shops, malls, cinemas, parks and every single thing you can actually find everywhere.
Several people were lazily scattered on the streets, yawning and clearly in the need of a cup of coffee if they weren’t sipping one right now. All of their eyes seemed either focused, concentrated on the awaiting unknown day while others couldn’t stop yawning, nearly spilling their coffee as they realize the time and actually begin running. I watched several female friends look at each other before running on their designer heels, maybe Manolos, maybe not. I never was interested in asking what label were my girlfriend’s shoes. Saying that I wanted her to wear Converse or Manolos or both would be egoistic.
What did I want in a girl? I looked down at my appearance. My regulars were the mossy green scarf and Converse. Well, if I felt happy I’d take that white shirt, one of those identical three I loved. White seemed to ease me too, but only in shirts, no matter long sleeved, short, button up, polo or wool.
Why was I this mad all the time? It was like I was another self. Then in the evening my madness would break free, grab that canvas, throw paint at it chaotically, leaving my morning self to fix it. The thing was it wasn’t just canvases; it was my life as well. My life would give me a blank white canvas and then I’d go angry, annoyed at the world and throw red, blood, blue, sorrow, green, sick, yellow, insanity and then press my palm against it, rubbing it on the remaining white spots with paint dripping off my fingertips, like blood.
Like blood. I shivered as I compared paint to that.
Like blood. I loved using that in the evenings. It was like I was cutting them, life, the players which played alongside me. Then I’d cut them and paint with them as I liked. Like a master. They were just paint, the insignificant drops arranged in puddles around my feet. I could do with them as I pleased. Like the blood of the victim as the knife cuts their flesh. The blood and the future in your hands on the tip of the cold knife you hold. Waiting for whatever action but demanding more blood, but only if you please. You’re the master, only you want more power and power keeps calling out earning for further actions.
More blood dripping, the skin drenched in other people's faith, sins, innocence and life long lost at birth, as the first exhale came. When the exchange of sanity was fulfilled for a greater deed.
The canvas was going to be blank again as it always was. A rush of excitement ran through my body, taking me fully, that I felt hot. I opened the window, feeling wind ruffle my messy dyed blonde hair. It wasn’t cold.
Was I scared?
Was I depressed?
Was I mad?
Endless thoughts began running through my head, as I closed my eyes. I felt like an overloaded computer ready to explode due to some unknown technical problem.Virus? Maybe. Was my madness a virus? Killing me from the inside, shredding the canvas little by little, strip by strip.
Stop, stop, stop.
I echoed that through my brain, trying to get hold of myself. I pressed my palm against my forehead taking deep breaths. I was tired. Exhausted. I opened my eyes seeing everything flash in front of my eyes in a blur, like back at the airport. Everything was a heavy blur, as my breathing got faster. I wanted to go… home.
Home?
The first thing which appeared in my head was my home with my mum’s meat pie, dad’s excited shouts while his favorite team won, my sister’s endless issues of Vogue lying around everywhere in a chaotic way and my room which reeked of oil paint due to the fact that I would always forget to put it away. Oil paint. I moaned as I wanted to feel the unmistakable smell and feel the rough fabric pulled onto the wooden frame. Brushes, I even had some in my messenger bag. I took one out feeling its softness stroke my fingers in a calming way. I let my finger run down wood, metal and the hair shaped oval, which still seemed untouchable despite the many times I used it.
I put it back, feeling my hand touch a known rectangular shaped item. My mobile.
Was that home? In the soothing roughly pressed buttons? I tried to keep my mind blank so that I wouldn’t get other homesick memories in my head, to flood it so that it wouldn't work, crack open and drench the world, the humans, crying for help for Superman, for the rest of the day. Isn’t this what I wanted? But then I stopped on my thoughts. Was I homesick? Did I want to go back? Did I want to go backwards turning away from the future I always wanted to have?
Well, my mobile was dead. Or I thought so after I managed to turn it on. It kept vibrating for a while before I could open the endless texts from my own worried mother, who was rather mad due to the fact that I went to the airport by myself, not bothering to wake them up. Actually, I had no intention to. I did not want to see my own parents cry a freaking river with my sister holding her tears as she’d describe everything to her latest boyfriend via texts again.
I opened several texts from the friends I left behind. Or was I the one who was left behind? I didn’t bother and opened them, smiling at suggestions like ‘get a hot gf’, ‘buy yourself more white shirts’ and so on. I quickly texted them, trying to get back to my sightseeing.
Chapter 2
Father, I red it all.
ReplyDeleteKeep on writing i want to read more. :3
Thank you:) I will:3
ReplyDeleteNew chapter in a week:)