No Sky Above

I‘ll be waiting all day I‘ll be waiting all year… for you.*

It‘s important to believe. All is within you. If you believe, I do too. Do you?

You are losing your hope without noticing it. You catch your-self walking down the street with your head down. Unfamiliar faces passing by. Absolutely everything lost its meaning. You feel like you’re in someone else’s shoes. You can’t stop asking yourself…

… is this it?

Rental room, rental furniture, boring monotonous work that sucks you out dry, so you desire for nothing else but a pint of lager and good night sleep… alone.

You fall into bed, lit a cigarette and lie staring at the ceiling, you turn on one side, pick a mobile phone off the floor hoping that someone remembered about your existence. No one. You put the phone back, finish up the cigarette, turn on the other side and hug a pillow imagining it’s her/him. You are lost in your own feelings. Sometimes, your emotions become incontrollable.

In the morning, you listen to jazz… you fry eggs swinging to the rhythm. You put the kettle on, lit a cigarette… and nothing changes.

Your wallet is full of receipts. You live from one salary to another. There are days you don’t have enough money to buy food. Then, you can’t fall asleep, so you think.

… you don’t really know if you care about things happening around you.

Do you?

You feel everyone is sick of you, even your-self. You don‘t recall a time you surprised your-self.

Apathy will kill you.

Everyone else’s lives seem flawless in comparison with yours. Sometimes you wish you were disabled so others would pay at least some attention.

… you have everything, but you’re incapable to use it and that weights you down. Weights you so, that you imagine your-self on the cutting board when slicing bread … you press the blade to your neck softly and cut the head off.

… you wish everything would be so easy.

You are angry at everyone. Especially at your father, that he impregnated your mother… at your mother, because she didn‘t have an abortion. Finally at both, because they didn’t give you up for adoption. You’re angry at nursery teacher, because she forced you to have an afternoon nap. You’re angry at neighbour kids because they refused to play with you. At high school teachers as they would ask you to stay after lessons, and tidy the classroom. At elder woman on the bus, because fifteen years ago she embarrassed you in front of all passengers making you feel like a total moron, because you didn’t give the seat up. You’re mad at a girl from parallel class, whose name you don’t even remember, but you’re sure you were in love with her and up until today, you believe she was your first. You’re angry at a boy, whom you fell in love with straight after you were rejected by the girl. He had no idea what you’re on about…. You are angry at Maxima workers, as they always seem unsatisfied and ruins your day. You can’t stand your boss, because it’s been four years without a pay rise, but you still work with your head down, because you have no guts to speak up. You’re angry at your golden fish, since it doesn’t acknowledge your existence – and that was the whole point of purchasing it… so you don’t feel so fucking lonely.

You kick litter walking down the street imagining it‘s fallen leaves. You’ve missed autumn. The Universal sadness. Longer evenings, when without a sense of shame you can enjoy a glass of whiskey at four. Once you have a drink, you drink for weeks, until you lose the sense of time. Sometimes you forget where you are… places collide. Sometimes, your thoughts carry you to adequate fragments of time… somewhere you’ve already been… yesterday you saw your reflection dragging behind you, repeating movements… you weren’t you: like a broken record that sounds disordered, and jams or stops playing.

Your melody is hushing… and that scares you.

You always say what’s on your mind… but that doesn’t always mean you think before opening your mouth. You’re simply using the opportunity to be heard. It’s rare to find someone who cares to listen.

You hate politics.

Today you’ve decided to get your-self a cat, so you feel less lonely, an object to speak to and say something like:

  • Elvis, – this would be your cat’s name, – why is there a stack of dirty dishes in the sink?


  • Elvis, has anyone called me?

Or even…

  • Elvis, it’s been a while we talked… I brought some wine, ordered Chinese, I hope you don’t have any plans?

What sort of plans? To lap some milk and shit in a litter box?

You‘re heading towards insanity… you can feel it, but you‘re still afraid to admit it aloud. Even to your-self.

Mother advised you to find a hobby. A few weeks after the conversation you bought a photo camera. You’ve always liked still images. You began to take pictures of litter, cats hit by a car, dogs, foxes, birds, squirrels, rabbits…

… one afternoon you were walking down the highway, searching for objects for your collection. Cars were racing by, beeping when you‘d sink into your thoughts and wonder beyond the continuous white line. It was getting dark. All this trouble for nothing – but you weren’t ready to give up, you continued walking humming National anthem of Lithuania. The anthem always inspired you for a feat. Sometimes, for a change, you would chant anthem of Soviet Union. The latter would fill you up with vigilance and strength… sometimes – make you cry.

You threw your head back searching for a sign or as if you were trying to hear God’s voice. God was asleep. You told him to fuck off… yes, you were angry at God too, for EVERYTHING, especially for creating Adam and Eve.

  • Why did you need them… look around! Didn’t think it through, ah?

After the prayer you realised that it‘s been six hours you‘re walking nonstop. Not a smell of dead bodies. You were feeling tired, sneakers that you bought last week hurt your feet. You sat down on the grass, untied shoelaces, took the right shoe off, then – the left one. And burst into tears. All felt apart at the same time. No one was around anyway. When you were a child parents told you not to cry. You listened to your parents. You hated them, but did what you told… and now. Now you couldn’t hold it back. Your face was itching from walking in sun for hours, the camera strap – like a leash – pressed into your skin leaving it blood red. Your stomach hurt, acid was eating your ulcer out. Your feet…

  • What have I done? Why you hate me so fucking much? – you mumbled under your nose, as if anyone cared.

You lied down on the ground. Only for a short while… you closed your eyelids and fell asleep. You slept, as if you were back to childhood: waking up from cold. You grew up in a poor family. In a winter premises weren‘t heated. Mother would boil some water, make a cup of camomile tea and lie you down onto a dump mattress. The mattress smelled of mould. She would cover you up with clothes, throw a fur coat on the top, kiss your cheek and say… no, to tell you the truth, she wouldn’t say a thing. Even now. Even your mother…

You woke up from the car lights. For a moment, you thought you’re in surgery.

  • Can we go now?

You rubbed your face and yawned. A woman was standing in front of you. She was in her thirties, tiny, wearing a short denim skirt, a light stripy shirt, a cigarette smoulder in her hand. She looks cheap… – you thought/ said aloud… you still weren’t too sure what’s happening.

  • Let’s go, – said voice coming from inside the car.
  • You heard heels tapping away, husky laughter, starting engine, music, sound of rewinding cassette…

You stood up from the grass, your feet were freezing. You fell asleep barefoot. You looked around … shoes weren‘t there. You felt at rage…

  • Hey! – you waved at the car.

They didn’t hear you, were pre-occupied with them-self. Something you encounter every single day, people who care about nothing but self.

Now you were fuming with anger. You hit the front window of the car.

  • Hey! For fuck sake… – you yelled once more.
  • Go, – said the other woman.

… you watched the car disappear in the horizon. You felt an urge to smoke. Looked around. Found your shoes. They were right where you left them. You checked your watch and realised you left it at home, on the kitchen table. You took it off before doing the dishes.

You are sick of yourself… you manage to turn anything into routine.

You started circling around, speeding your step up gradually, you span until you felt sick and fell back to the ground. You hurt your forehead. You lied there exhausted.

…you threw your head back one more time, until your neck began to hurt and hit the ground. And again… and again… and again to the blackout.

On the way home you saw a woman speaking with starts. Maybe with angels, God, gnomes, fairy or Aladdin, you had no idea.

You promised your-self to start over, to build a life the way you always wanted – independently, free from opinion of others, free from patterns created. Life is such a thing, that can’t be right or wrong, – you thought.

You passed by a young man, who had denim trousers attached to his legs, a tiny bit lighter than those he was wearing… he looked weird. Overall, that only supported your previous thesis. You nodded in agreement with yourself. There is no yes, neither there is no, only thousands of different perspectives… and the way home. If you’re not sure where you’re going, keep going straight… you no longer believe in the existence of the pole start… you no longer believe in existence.

You looked at the sky ready to curse again but there was no sky above.

*Silverchair  „Waiting All Day” album „Young Modern” (2007)

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