Ian's Journal

So neither of us ever had brothers. Your life had been tougher than mine: you had an alcoholic dad with some mental issues, an ass of a step-father and a pretty strange mother. I had been brought up by a quite dysfunctional couple, yes, but it was not as bad as it has been for you. You were addicted to alcohol and marijuana and excess of all kinds, I was interested in none of those. You had long hair when we first met, I always had mine short. But that’s never been relevant, was it?

You were opened. Literally. You were a book ripped apart, anyone who was interested could ask you anything and you would answer, honestly, pouring in them the confidence, always treating them as friends, trusting no matter what. Careless? Maybe, but I never saw you make an enemy of someone. Everyone loved you. Except for her: someone who wanted to be loved more than you were.

Where did I fit in that? I never knew. When we first got along, there was no reason, no cause gathering us up. I was not one of the cool kids, but you immediately were, even though you had long hair. Yet, we already were friends. Then we grew up. We shared the pains of growing up, even though we had no ideas they were pains at that time. Because those pains were pretty nice, as we were growing from those dumb little kids into involved teenagers. Involved with girls, sure, but also with all the other things we were getting to love: music, friendship, the shared moments of an isolated night leading to discussions we knew we would never have again but would always remember.

But you forgot. You forgot that even though all of this could gather us in the same place, they weren’t what made us friends. They were moments, shared history, but we were friends before we had a history. You forgot we were friends not because of how we acted, but because of how we felt and who we were. We were the best kind of friends, friends from distant worlds, friends that taught each others stuff we would never have found out each on our own. I owe you. You owe me. One of us had the sense to realise that, you just left it rot.

You could not deal with the fact that I accepted you like you were, but that it meant I was not going to be with you. I could not deal with the fact that you ignored it.

Neither of us ever had brothers, but you certainly have killed the best I had.

*

Yeah, so I have this relationship with the moon that makes me look like a teenager with a serious lack of trust in his friends, but since it started when I was around 14 and that I never had any trust in my friends when it comes to relationship, it kind of makes sense.

It started quite simply. I was in love. But I was not loved back (I checked, I’m not one of those who love but keep it for themselves, or I was not at the time). It did not really make me feel sad, partly because I did not understand my feelings well enough and partrly because I was in love with a friend of mine but I had managed to keep the friendship going. I was not sad, but I was quite hollow. I was writing a little bit at the time, and I remember describing the whole experience like this: falling in love with someone is like having wings growing out of you. You feel powerful, free, inspired by the new world of possibilities that’s now before you. But to use said wings, you have to confront your feelings with those of the loved one. If you’re not loved back, the wings burst in flame and you’re left with blackened bones and a trail of ashes. So I kind of felt like that. All the expectations I had buit up somewhere in my chest had been burned down and left the place hollow.

Like I said, at the time I was really not able to discuss my feelings with my friends, mainly because I was convinced that none of them were feeling things the way I do. I mean, they would have listened without a doubt, and with good intentions, but their conception of logics would have lead to suggestions of parties and made-up relationships to forget the one I couldn’t have. Anyway. It was a full-moon night, and I was feeling quite hollow. Listening to Jeff Buckley’s Hallelujah, too, which wasn’t really helping but made me feel part of something bigger. And there it was, the moon. It made me feel much better. The atmosphere it created for me that night was the one I needed. It was winter, I could see the still and naked trees from my window and the moon shining through them all, uncaring, permanent, cold but beautiful. The vision itself was quite depressing, but for some reason it drained the hollowness away, filled it with new expectations. It was sort of implied that the moon would be carrying the weight of the world, and I would have to carry the burden of hope.  I’m still thinking, after all these years, that it’ll come back someday and we’ll trade again, it’ll give it my disapointments to travel with, and it’ll give me new horizons to contemplate.

*

I don’t want to have any children. This generally sounds bad, but it’s actually meant with good will. I don’t want them to go through the life they are bound to have. Yes, true, there is pleasure, there are happy people out there who will say that I’m a jerk, that the world is beautiful and that an asshole like me should not even be able to reproduce to begin with (yeah, happy people are very mean to me). And they are quite right, for I have seen the world a bit, and haveoften been surprised with how pretty it can be, and how life can feel good. And then again, what do I have to offer to those unborn kids? My great fathering skills? Yeah, right, I’m not sure children are meant to be read Schopenhauer at bedtime. My imagination lies in the depth of realism, there’s nothing a child could draw from that. I could be a good father, but my child wouldn’t like me. And I wouldn’t really care about it if I thought the world had something worth getting children through the pains of childhood (pains shared since young kids truly are annoying as hell). And I feel like all I see as worthy of my love for life won’t last long enough for those who’ll come after us to enjoy.

In short, I’m afraid I wouldn’t celebrate the life of my child, but I would lament the life I couldn’t give them instead.

This is a new year. I demand a new world.

*

First, there’s the light. I feel like I’ve seen it before, sometimes, but mostly it’s just about some effect of light I had never noticed before. Then comes the urge. I have to take the picture, to stop the car, to stand in the rain or in the cold, I have to take the damn picture because I know I won’t be there again, I won’t have another chance. And, finally, comes the realisation. I am not prepared, I am not equipped, and I failed at being able to feast on one of the last few things I enjoy. I have no decent camera, I have no training, and I’m just a frustrated enthusiast.

The only things left are a long list of failures, some attempts spoiled by the wrong equipment, and a few remains.

*

It’s all grey outside. It’s raining like it should be, drops and drops clinging to what they can, sliding down the window we can barely see through the condensation. It’s raging outside, it’s raging inside. The cold and wet grass craves for our luck. The sun is down. The lights are on. But not all of them, just a few, just enough to see, just enough to feel. Hands are exchanged. Hands are lost, busy, awkward but decided. Hands are lost, but invited. Lips come and part, and come again, part again. Skin burns. Tongues clash. Eyes close, then open and search for other eyes. And close. Ears get bitten. Legs everywhere. Arms become asylums. Chests become magnets and lips metal, both fall and rise again, together as one. Necks aren’t necks anymore, they’re electricity. Her hair becomes his.

Both cling to what they can, and slide down.

*

I behave like a child in a few situations. I often realise I speak with child-like wonder or discontentment when I’m talking with my girlfriend. There’re quite a lot of possible explanations for that. First, for some reason, it’s kind of cute. Maybe not when I do it, but when she does. Well it’s cute when it’s not positively stupid. So there’s that. But I’m also considering the possibility that it’s a way to bring us down to the same level.

Not that I consider myself to be so clever she can’t follow, but we don’t act and think the same way, we don’t have the same rules when it come to the way our minds work. Going back to childness means just that. When I talk like a child, she knows I mean no harm, I mean just what I said. It’s sad; really, that we have to dumb down in order to communicate, but sometimes it’s is the only way.

I think it’s sad, and then again, I think it’s once of the little prices we pay. We all pay.

I’ve been away a lot.

I have to re-assess my approach to this blog. This is the place where I record the rights and wrongs of life, and where I intend to come back and peek at what the past me had to say on these. This where I burst into flakes of rage or cold despair. This is where people die, or live, or just are, because they exists within my will and only through it. This, fundamentaly, is my world, but it’s also living in a world. The world. I don’t care about it, but it is a fact, and I need to check them. To make sure. The question is, I guess, do I still want this blog to exist, and do I still want to post?

Why would I? Again, I could continue because I don’t think my main goal has been achieved yet, there isn’t really anything there I feel like I need to go back to. I know what happened to me, and I still know how I felt through most of these events in life. Another reason would be because blogging is also a therapy in itself. It brings out what one can’t keep in. It is a tool for those who wish to formulate questions, make their doubts known or face their fears. I have all three of these. I have no doubt that I have my place in this place. I just don’t know whether this place has got a place in me. The answer is probably already decided. I just have to admit it

*

This is Christmas. There’s a certain feeling about it I’m not sure I enjoy. There’s always the pleasure of the winter season coming, the numbing cold compensated by the overwhelming amount of beauty. But then, this time, there’s a heavy feeling over the season. I feel like this Christmas is a last in itself. I’m not forseeing any death, that is not what I mean, but there is a part of me who knows, deep down, that this year will end in a way that next year won’t be able to duplicate. This is the last Christmas of my student life. This is the last Christmas of my relationship, or at least its last Christmas in this form. This is the last Christmas of so many of my dreams it sort of hurts. This, friends I haven’t, is yours. It’s the Christmas I wish I could have spent with all of you, but you’ve kept it way from me. It’s the stolen Christmas of bruised hopes, leaving opened the road to years of bitterness.

This is the turning point that hides in the last of the melting snow, and no one can tell if I’m ready. Bring it on.

*

I should have walked another way. I had so many things I wanted to do, when I was younger. I even remember having “dream jobs”. Now I just look at the photographers and wonder why I didn’t have the guts to do that, even though they’re gonna have a hard time making money. I look at the cooks and wonder why I didn’t have the guts to do that, even though they don’t have a life outside the kitchen. I look at what I paid to learn, and I just wonder why.

*

I’m sure that even though we’ve never done it for real, when I look back at this I’m going to admit we broke up a long time ago. And that’s all I really have to say on where we stand.

*

I am three weeks away from a month out of University. I feel so empty. Once upon a time, I was this huge box filled with ambition, with courage, with talent, with rage, with wits, with running legs and, at the bottom of it all, a fine layer of dust called hope. Those past 7 weeks have taken all that out, and I’m pretty much left with the clean, shiny impression of having to fill it all again – just to have it taken out once more.  When people tell me I’m a hard-worker I don’t understand because I never feel like I’m giving anything my best. And yet, now I realise I just don’t have a best to give, I just have a limited amount of stuff to sacrifice. I’m not a hard worker. I’m just the guy with the curvy knife, waiting for the virgin on the altar.

And that’s a bad use of a virgin.

*