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How's your mind tonight honey?
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Learning to die.
Shadows swam from corner to corner of the room like leeches in a lake.
It was just raw fear of dying. Perhaps actually a wish? Maybe the scary part was that I wished it?
Life and death are not opposite. Death is the opposite of birth, not of life. Life doesn’t have an opposite. My diary was full of all sorts of philosophical quips, but nothing to take the hatchet out of my chest.
And so pain endured. It debated if it found someone worth it. It made a nest, in an apartment on 29th floor of a high-rise overlooking Singapore lights. How long will it take to hatch?
I was a student of one of the world’s best business schools. With lots of things I thought I knew. But actually, a lost old soul, who didn’t know how to trust a friend. A loner who loved the illusions of his own kaleidoscopic imagination, passionate moments of creation and self-induced nostalgia from revisiting old school yards and imaginary cemeteries of neon signs.
With absolutely no idea of what I should be doing next with life, and in a relationship that felt like a tight choker.
I was sweating from an anxiety fit, every 3am, regularly for weeks. Night after night scared shitless of dying of a heart attack. Like my Grandfather on a cold January morning.
“Grandfather never taught me how to die, it happened to him too soon.” I said that out loud to myself that night.
And then I saw him, looking at me from outside the window, in the black night.
A handsome man. Moustache and sleek dark hair combed back in the art-deco style. Fire of heart forged his brow. Depth of his nature glimmered in the greens of his eyes. And history of survival, terror and war smudged on his prison tattoo. A vision of my ancestor, appearing alive.
We talked.
“I miss you” I cried, and started talking to him, “…I didn’t know what was happening… I was just standing in my pyjamas in your office upstairs, ran onto the balcony. The snow was melting, I was barefoot, and the red rusty railing was cold. You were carried out of the house, I didn’t know where they were taking you, and why you had to be carried, we just cuddled that morning…”
“I didn’t sleep the whole night. And then the next day my Aunt came, walked into the living room, sat my grandmother in the main armchair, kneeled in front of her, and said something with tears in her eyes…”
“My uncle then pulled me out of the room, just as I heard a wail, a piercing saw of pain, that stabbed at my own face in the corridor mirror. First time I felt death, was when I saw my own reflection in a mirror, looking back blankly. “
“A long shriek and a cry at the end, with a pause of silence so deep. My uncle turned to me and said laconically: ‘Grandfather died’.”
I didn’t feel a thing, and my mirror reflection wasn’t mine.
A small boy, wearing red tight shorts and a white tight shirt. A little polish boy dressed in the colours of its pained fatherland, who has lost yet another man to the terrors of the system.
“I know”, the reflection said and disappeared.
The system. It took me a long long time, to learn to use this word with love.
My grandfather spent most of his life in a forest, tending to it and ranging to its animals. We sometimes went to catch butterflies, that we would then freeze and pin to a glass-covered display cabinets hanging on the walls of his office. He had dozens and dozens of butterflies, beetles and dragonflies displayed across the room, by the time he passed away there was no more room for any more. And a huge boar on the wall, as well as antlers of various animals.
He still appears in my dreams as a bear. Big and strong bear, who is waiting for me in my orchards of symbols.
We often dove into the forest, holding hands. His hand was like a warm sea. And the forest’s spirited chirps, cracks, haunts and howls echoed in us both through the connection we shared.
Nature, nature burning with light, how I miss thy embracing lullaby…
In my own heart.
I turn around and fall asleep. I was ok after that visit.
I knew I will always have him. He came from a scar in the sky, a rapture in the black shawl that covered the metropolis, reminding us that even in the deepest madness of men detached from their nature, we are still all but children.
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Emigration
My secret blog is not secret anymore. I had a place where I wrote just for myself, and it was anonymous. It’s cover got burned. I have now removed that, and will post my writing here.
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