Marmalade Guy

       It was at the end of some summer. With him, all my summers were the same, so I cannot tell the difference. 

Boomerang. Maybe everything in life follows this simple rule. I often find myself sitting in this room. The room is a haze of smoke and dim light, shadows dancing on the walls like ghosts of my past. The air is thick, suffocating, mirroring the weight in our chests. All participants of all the processes here are so different, but, simultaneously, we are so similar. We’re loaded with something we couldn’t handle well. So, we are leveling things like we learned best. Where’s the “boomerang”? Why don’t I sit in a clean, full of the fresh air room for a change? 

       I remember watching how the sun’s rays, engaged with the wind, played with the dust, stealing it from the leaves of the huge tree under which we sat. The bench, like a time machine, transported us to another era. Was it, perhaps, because of the old hospital, in whose yard the tree had spent the best years of its life? Anyway, the cinematographic effect left a huge visual imprint in my memory, even bigger than him. This guy… I lay my head on his lap, and he talked. Oh, dear God, what nonsense he was spouting! Why wasn’t he struck by lightning every time he opened his mouth? Oh well, the shade of his lips reminded me of cherries — so red… I loved cherries because they were a symbol of serene translucence for me. It was a taste of a careless June, somewhere very back in time. Somewhere far, when I believed in knights and happily ever after.

Notes float around, soaked in comically brutal words. I glance around, seeing familiar faces lost in their own worlds, laughing, drowning their sorrows in cheap liquor. People play cards out of boredom. The one thing you actually want to lose. Track after track fills the dream of earthly peaks with supposedly unearthly feelings…

       People came and went; all dull, burdened with problems. Patients, their visitors, doctors, and nurses intertwined in a bizarre spectacle, with a hint of coffee-flavored retrospection. Their eyes didn’t sparkle. The rustle of shoes and plastic bags — the accompaniment to the endless procession of feet. The overall flow seemed like a film reel, contained pajamas, white coats, restrained laughter, clicks of lighters, dancing smoke.

No one wants to hear me, and I don’t want to talk. Will I meet you here? Again.

       The guy, meanwhile, kept talking. What a trick of nature! Why does someone so ridiculous have to be so beautiful? A genetic joke or a survival secret from ancestors? His hair shimmered like white gold, and his eyes reflected the summer sky. And yet, what nonsense he was spouting. There was nothing else left, only music, so I put on my headphones.

“Give me air 

It’s so hard to breathe among these concrete slabs 

And without rest I try to run 

I want to be free for at least a moment…” 

Smoke fills up the whole space under the ceiling It’s a scene I’ve witnessed countless times, yet it never feels any less surreal. The only thing that changes here, in this room, is the music; track after track, each one is a reminder of dreams that seem just out of reach.

Do you ever think about me in moments like these? Do you feel the same emptiness? Or are you too wrapped up in your own struggles?

You’re probably asleep, right? (There always has to be a “You,” becoming the object of pathetic suffering. So, why not this guy?) In your ordinary double bed, in a small apartment paid for with her money. In your closed eyes, a silent question. Not my silent question. Yeah, you’re always silent there. This silent one isn’t mine.

Three pairs of slippers by the door, telling their story: black, size 11, blue fluffy ones, size 7, extra for moms on weekends, and small ones — the reason for the mind-numbing routine. No, I’m not ashamed!

       He is easily deceived, like a small child convinced that everyone is interested in his musings about existence. So, it might be something else than a narcissistic disorder. There could be something I cannot process. A prophetic fervor that engulfs rare individuals, confident in their uniqueness, for example. However, it inevitably leading to two kinds of illusions: to save or to be saved. I am familiar with both variations. All these are two sides of the same coin, awarded for the unwillingness to manage one’s own life. On the other hand, if it weren’t for this very fervor, we wouldn’t have modern civilization, abstract thinking, art, and doctrines establishing norms of moral behavior in society. I shouldn’t even think about all these things, for my own sanity. Well, that’s what my psychotherapist thinks. 

“…give me air…”

When will he really open his eyes that look like “pansies” to see things as they really are? Come on, return with your seasonal love! I just wish to hate you again. Boomerang.

       He always asks me why I like to spend time here. I don’t think, I should bother him with my sadness. The truth is, I lost my chance to give life to the boy, ideally, as beautiful as him and as intellectual as me. Right here, at this hospital, just another summer.

“…It’s so hard to breathe among these concrete slabs …”

Come over, and I’ll stop pouring out all these intoxicated impulses. It’ll be easier. I hope, you’re exhausted. I hope, it hurts after learning the truth. Selfishly, I understand. No one knows this better than the two of us.

You never knew how to comprehend me on Saturdays. The problem is the opposite. Boomerang?

       Strangely, despite the pleasant smell and almost unbearable cloyingness of his speech, this guy was bitter to the taste. Marmalade boy — not my kind of sweetness.

“…and without rest I try to run…”

       I will always remember you. Sorry, I couldn’t just lie there longer…

“…I want to be free for at least a moment…”