Montijo had just stepped out of
the bus into Novelda, Spain. Nothing around felt like in his own self told
stories about this place. It smelled dusty and everything around felt
unaffected by time. ‟Well,
this city should suit me," he
thought. Not from the first, but that timeless sensation that enchanted him was
probably from leisureliness which he knew so fine. It was a certain remissness
that was obvious in every detail of the city streets. He had told himself that
he should visit this city at the cross of the road, so hidden from the way. "The one city that will make him grow stronger
into his own persona‟, he
thought. He felt like he was in another story the moment he stepped out of the
bus. Not a thing he left behind was to make him let his guard down and stay. He
only came to breath this all uncertainty in, to make it real and true. He was
to heal from the sensation of presentness that he was so unsure of but
everybody else around him was so eager to make him more agile and keen on
living and acting more lively, more into the moment. He was a part-time
journalist and an aspiring novelist of twenty three years old, blonde, naive,
earnest presence. He always had a grown passion for out of reach places. He
enjoyed dreaming about them, fantasizing about them. Montijo sure felt a great
mixture of feelings when around those places. The ones that are so mesmerizing
due to what you feel when you encounter them. And as a meditative person…
***
He has been feeling lost so many
times. But only not when in love. Loving to him felt like with a purpose. That
awakening within always made him feel on point. Like falling to get somewhere.
He missed her over and over again. Little recollections like her eye lashes,
the way he would touch her lips slowly with his index finger, the way he moaned
around her. Slightly obsessed with her, he tought he was but in fact every
second was pain. There wasn’t actually a passing of time. Time meant pain, time
could not pass because pain was still there. ‟But
how can you go further from yourself?" he tought. ‘You are one with the pain. You are one with the love. Never
in my life had I felt like this. So in love. So alive I’m dead. So much sadness
in my heart, in my eyes. I’m constantly looking in mirrors. And cry. I watch my
reflection in my eyes, stand there, I look at the tears as they flow down my
cheeks ( sometimes there are no tears but my eyes are so sad that it feels even
worse). I look at the way my face changes through pain, I make slow moves then
all with a force visible on my features. I’m always careful with details. I’m
so often quiet that details are my friends. I notice a lot of things and I
didn’t even knew it so far. If only I could do something with everything I’ve
gathered in my head. I need to see her.’
***
‘I would crumble and fall on my
knees whenever I was feeling the ache inside of me. Nothing could bring you
back and I’m addicted to your presence. I love you more than myself. I’m asking
myself how after only so little time in this city felt things my heart had
never felt before, lost my reason and how come I am now longing for something
beyond those two. My heart is you. When you’re not around it’s like a scream
inside of me, a roar of suffering, of unknown sadness, every time deeper.
I am damned to ask
questions, and I ask so many! And here I am thinking I was finally beginning to
take action and not just suffering from that unknown lonesomeness I have always
suffered from, mostly after midnight. I
kept on reliving. Asking for guidance from myself I would ask my eyes to keep
on living and not just act happy. I would pray the cords of my spirit late into
the night, I would write some drafts, fragments, notes, whatever and that would
give some sort of relief. Despondency is the word to describe me now. And I
would call for you. But there’s no ringtone.
The way my heart
pauses down and forth-
The way I touch your
time. I’d sing for
The thing I love most.
I’m in awe at your
sight and I am
Screaming in tears
inside. But-
I belong far from sad
eyes.
Darling.
***
My head is puzzling. I sit here
and I write too many beginnings. There are no beginnings in my life. My poems
have none, my heart, any thought, and any expectations I have have no end. I
just stopped crying. It’s a millionth time now that I’ve tried to abruptly stop
everything with you. I sit in silence now, alongside my heart. She speaks to me
through my mind that has so many thoughts it’s hard to keep sane or…not in
love. I follow my instinct no matter what. Even when I am not.
I run deep inside
myself and I love everything about one entity. And it is you. How come I got so
far into this unknown version of semi-single romance?! I don’t know. I keep on
asking. And there are some more questions than answers. I could never write
right, I know. Even when in sadness, I run my pencil so softly and lightly I
could swim on words, on feelings, on ink. It’s so soft to write! But I am…I..I
have no beginnings. But how come I stand? The wind’s blowing and I know myself
to be so weak…but I stand! As I write this I try to acknowledge that. I stand
because I stand! I am my own guardian. Because I get to nurture myself from
expectations and then…to ravish.
***
I use nature’s ways to
make me feel voluntarily small. Or so I act. I am too much in my head I would
not know if I had it all right, all the facts, all the answers. I am all alone
up in my mind and you… All I want to do is leave; but you can’t stay that much
gone-all for me of all for you. I cry to know that sooner or later. I want to
know my reality. Why do we encounter and fall? I use nature as an assurer. I’m
tired of living this way but every time it seems like you’re just starting out;
smashing my brain out, that’s what you do to me. I mea…I can’t even finish
sentences with bad words about you since I see you as my world. I have your
last written words saying that you will come back: ‘I need silence these days.
I love you.’
To you I wouldn’t need
anything else. But I am more than you can handle and also the other way around.
I have an energy only you can tame, but
yours is too much to master. I ask myself why it had to be with you but it
always ends with you being the answer. I can’t stop loving. Yes, I am trying to
block you out of my life, but you are the one that brings life to it and that’s
ironic. I die inside a little always after lunch, after every meal, every move
you make, or words mumbled careless. I am yours and I can’t stop devouring
myself because of it. You are my addiction. That’s the answer or the easy way
out. That’s how I call myself crazy and lay alone in one place or wherever. I
plan to write about you all Hemingway style.
Last time you asked: ‘So we’re
going to eat some pizza then?’ But the appointment fell trought. You never did
come back. I close my eyes and I whisper -Please stop feeling!-You heart, with
you I’m talking! My eyelids feel tired. When I open them again, as I raise them
softly, that’s when it feels like a certainty that I’m alone. I nurture myself
into sleep, get warm into the blanket but I always get bad dreams and that’s
when I get to sleep. I am tired of my ways, but I’ve grown with them for almost
seven months now that they feel like home. Take them away from me and I’m all
new, like a baby. Get fixed heart! But
the idea is- and it only struck me now completely- I chose it! You are my wish.
I used a wish on you. Not long before I knew you I wished to always feel
something, to have something to write about, to love fiercely. But it devours
me. I know I’m too much in my head and you seem to be the answer to all my
problems but I pray- again, I’m using this ‘pray’ thing a lot lately, but yes,
I also pray to God besides my heart and that’s because I don’t take your ways
too seriously , I pray to him silently, quietly, and I’m not mentioning it to
no one and now I confess that because I’m liberating myself and I’m starting to
see you fully around me.. Right now I’m
in between answers, because when I have you in front of my face there is no
question, but certainty. I beg again, and again.
I can’t go back home now. I
can’t leave, I whisper, both with my eyes closed, both with them open. My appointments are calling for me but my
heart is buried into Novelda’s soil. I feel there’s so much more to write but
the story is far from changing its course. There are no chapters. My days have
only reactions of my heart. I can’t leave for now, but as you’re far from me
now I will take small trips of heart into the surrounding area and I shall
survive my damned self told stories.
[Despondency. I die inside a little always after lunch
Simona Nuţu. ]
