Thursday, July 13, 2017


It's in my nightmare I have to live from now on.
It was a bad driver who was to blame, for sure. Like the ones we bump into every time we go out and you get pissed off because they are "Sooooo dangerously slow!" and I consequently roll my eyes to the sound of your recurring insight.
Must have been at the slippery and narrow country road from the scenic route you must have taken. You showed it to me on our trip to the north, a winding snake of a road, without any railings to its sides, just a deep ditch that spooked me big time and told you "I thought these roads exist only in third world countries..." and you comforted me "but we are the third world, baby!". Thanks very much...
It must have been your slight fever too, that I told you not to underestimate but it was not manly enough for you to stay at home to recover on the couch. And you very well knew that sometimes fever gives you double vision. I told you it had happened to me one time and it was very disorienting and disconcerting, because it occurred in the middle of an arguement I was having with the witch that was emy ex mother in law, and one of her was already a handful.
It must be my consistent bad luck that  left me here, entirely, completely, absolutely alone against the rest of this Continent, an ocean and another Continent away from where my home that once was, is. That is precisely the length of aloneness. And here I am now, standing on the coordinates of loneliness. Right at this very spot, in the kitchen. I don't even drive. I speak the alien language and that's it. What good is it for? If I weren't speaking it, maybe the neighbors that I have shared the sum of five sentences all and all, would feel sorry for me and do everything on my behalf, if they are good christians (there are massively attracted to this part of the country). Perhaps they will do the bad, horrible, necessary stuff, the things that must be done. Mustbedone. A sign from a very disturbing, dark place inside me; its letters carved in capital gothic font on eroded old stone, readable only when lightning strikes in a night with heavy rain and gastly winds.
Forget the neighbors. I speak the language too well and therefore, I have to organize all mustbedones, by myself....
I have only five zanax left. It is either all of them at once, or very carefully managed doses of one quarter at a time, for them to last as long as I need to make it for the next week, or so. What if my sister in law will help? We haven't bonded ever, really. Just once we tried, when we went to the big mall for shopping and there was not much room for profound talking, as you can imagine.
I have to call his sons. I can't. What do I say? How do I say it? No, let her call their mother. They need to be here. This is a daytmare. I am not going to make it. And suppose I do, what next? What do I do with the house, the furniture, the paintings? How do I share them, How do I go back? Do I go back? And if I go back what do I do there, after so many years that I have been fading like the Cheshire cat from the minds of everyone? What do I do here, where I am not even that?
The phone rings. Must be the police!

"I just saw six missed calls from you. I did not hear the phone ringing. I am on my way back. Is everything ok, baby?"

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