War

You’re struggling to grasp the essence of life. It’s like an unfinished task, that bothers you, makes your body stiff, clouds your mind, takes away colourful dreams and instead rolls a never ending horror film.

You’re sick of yourself, everybody else is sick of you too, especially your mother, who would push you back inside with a pleasure if only she could. 

  • I can’t believe this is it, – biting still warm piece of an apple pie you reason.
  • Believe it, this is life, – she repeats for a hundred fifth time whiles watching television.

One out of five favourite series is on, which she watches on Russian channel, as if Lithuanian channels wouldn’t have enough shitty programmes to choose from. She even listens to daily news on RTR Planet Baltic.

  • If this is it, I’d rather be dead, – you continue with your mouth full.
  • Come again?
  • No, nothing.
  • I heard you say something.
  • Are you happy? – you swallow.
  • I am.

You hold your head in your hands watching her suspiciously: and indeed she seems happy, glowing.

  • Why so happy?
  • …, – she looks at you like at someone else’s child.
  • Mother, I wanna live.
  • …, – she’s no longer listening, her eyes focused, mouth tiny bit open, Right to Truth is on.
  • Live!
  • This is life, – she’s sticking to her guns, – day in, and day out.
  • …, – you’re speechless, blood freezes in veins only from a thought, that four seasons, same house and same job, more or less same social network, weekends spent shopping is life. Oh, right, you forgot to add summer holiday somewhere like Turkey, Egypt, Greece or Cyprus and more recent destination – Morocco).
  • Stop having your head in the clouds, – she advises.
  • …, – you don’t say a word as your mouth is full, sorrow just made you eat the last piece of pie.
  • Also, it would be nice if you find yourself a decent man, – she cannot hold a conversation without pointing this out and reminding you gently that you should look for a job too.
  • Where did this come from?
  • It is obvious you are struggling on your own, – she shares her observations whiles pouring water into the kettle.
  • So you’re saying that those who choose to share their life with significant other are losers?
  • …?
  • Because they can’t manage living on their own?
  • …, – she looks at me blankly again, as if looking at a stranger, – would you like a cup of tea?
  • Yes, please.

Nothing helps. The void inside you is getting wider as if the ozone hole, and anxiety is following you like a shadow. Woeful thoughts about temporality wakes you up in a middle of the nigh and brings you out in cold sweat reminding that you aren’t where you supposed to be.

  • Ah, – you wake up gasping for breath.
  • Is everything alright? – he asks.
  • …, – you’re lost for response, for a moment you’re not sure if you fell asleep with the one who is a great fuck, or the one who cares and listens.
  • Have a sip of water and go back to sleep, I have an early meeting tomorrow, – he mutters into the pillow.
  • Please leave, – you ask remembering that you fell asleep talking.
  • …, – he lies there for a few seconds, sighs and sits up on the edge of the bed.
  • Are you thinking if this is it? – you lit up a cigarette.
  • I’m thinking that there is a high chance you are fucking insane and asking my-self why I keep coming, if I know the scenario?
  • Maybe because you are loser and you can’t manage living on your own?

There is something deeply satisfying about hurting feelings of the ones you love. You are like a cat playing with a thread: scratch here, scratch there, move over with a paw, grab sticking in the nails, catch and lean over, then push back again until you get tired. Goodwill in human relationship makes you feel helpless, it does not correspond with your vision of life. In your book there is no such a word as – peace; and happiness found by others in simple things – seems unbearable.

  • … it must be hard to be you, – he shares his guesses putting shoes on.
  • …, – you don’t argue; you wish it would be easy, but you can’t believe that easy may be so simple, – and you’re not helping.
  • Knock knock knoc, – he knocks on the door, – hear it? Empty as your noddle. You threw me out of bed five minutes ago! What am I supposed to do?

He moves neither backwards, nor forward: as if he was about to slam the door and never come back, as if he was about to go back to bed and never get out.

He hesitates. I bet, if I ask him/…

  • /… are you happy?

He would reply:

  • I am happy.

 

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