Walking on the beach is one of my favorite activities. I try to do it often, for it, somehow, heals me. And one of these days, walking down the sand, enjoying the sun, I stumbled upon a glass bottle with a piece of paper inside of it. I uncorked it. It had a not so old piece of paper with some writings on it.
“Down in a hole” would never come close to how I’m feeling right now. The sudden loss of light on the inside could be a more accurate way to describe it, as I feel like I’m shrinking, my outside giving in to the void inside, like a vacuum bomb sucking its surroundings and turning it into a compact piece of existence that has no influence whatsoever on its own surroundings. All of the desires to influence someone in a positive, loving way, fade to dust, and so do all of your will as you’re ran over by the infamous, merciless, freight train of life.
Walking around, invisible, realizing that even the mold has some utility, and that even waste can produce something, could be, maybe, an exaggerated way of looking at this situation, but when you dive deep within your own soul, you realize how fucked up your own self is, not for what you in fact are, but for what you’re feeling like. You realize you’re feeling like a fading figure, a person that is, with a peristaltic movement, digging its own hole to hide in.
To hide from what?
From everything. The simple idea of picturing a future kills you when you have no strength, and specially when you feel so down that you also feel dependent, and even more when you reach out to the people you think so deeply of, but they are either far, busy, or have moved on. That is the end of the line, the part when you simply lay down in bed and stay there until someone tries to take you out of there with a speech of strength, but also showing you that they too are going through something like that, with tears rolling down their faces, smiling just to cover their own disgraces. And you feel them – and you feel like them. Because you don’t just show it to anyone. In fact, you don’t show it to anyone, you keep it to yourself, just to spare people’s time and patience. After all, they won’t be able to help you, especially being so far away like most of them are.
The day starts like that, it passes by like that, and like that it ends, the seconds turning to minutes, and the minutes turning to hours. You count them like you would count the sand grains of a desert: with no rush at all. Why, you ask me. Because nothing matters when your inside is pitch black.
I folded the paper, grabbed a lighter and burned it, hoping to, somehow, erase all that from that person’s life, and to give some light to that person’s interior.
Be a wolf and a mountain altogether.
Rafael Mendes da Silva