Здравствуй, Солнышко,
I am thinking about that day… I was smoking, sitting on a windowsill, and you were yelling about something I promised but never fulfilled, and you threw your slipper at me, saying that my mind was a dump full of useless and discarded things. I was mad then, but over the years it became clear even to me.
There is so much junk around. Everything is scattered, a frightening systemless mess. Piles of printouts and handwritten notes are stacked everywhere. These are deposits of jokes and funny stories, collected for witty remarks and impromptu cleverness, meant to create the impression of a well-read person with refined sense of humor. There are simply too many of them. They clutter all the space, distract, and make it harder to find anything actually important. Beneath them, the outlines of chests filled with various useless junk can be guessed.
Here is one with medical textbooks, once memorized for yet another test or exam and safely forgotten the moment the grade was received. Many boxes. Unnecessary, like collection of ancient Greek myths, history of Napoleonic wars, with toy soldiers scattered around, once lovingly cast and meticulously painted with attention to historical uniform details. Once needed and interesting. Now it only takes up space, yet getting rid of it is not an easy task.
A classification chart of the animal kingdom hangs on the wall. The protozoa are especially marked, with an arrow and the words “this is you” pointing at an amoeba. Apparently, over all this time, I never evolved. But the chart is only the beginning. The entire wall is covered with insults and phrases. Different handwriting, different grievances gathered on one “wall of lament.” Some of the entries are accompanied by “cave paintings.” Some are crossed out. Crossing them out felt especially good, and putting a cross over the inscription that I would die a virgin felt even better. Of course, it was not crossed by the one who wrote it, but she later added her memory anyway. And here is a poster saying “you are a looser.” That one, you were right, no matter how hard I try, I will never cross out.
I must walk carefully. One wrong step, and a rake handle will deliver yet another reminder to the forehead. They are everywhere, buried under sheets of funny stories that I used to soften the pain from the blows by telling yet another joke about my failures. I stumble, and a handle labeled Boston 1999 strikes my head. I remember Boston. It is the past and it will never repeat. It does not hurt as much and lies on the border of pleasant memories.
There is a wall of lamps giving off a pleasant warm light. The joys. Little lights of first kisses, meetings, cheerful gatherings, spotlight of my wife, birth of my children. There is a small path cluttered with rakes near by that I will not take. It is a dead end with a massive column of flame.
“You” don’t give out soft light. You are the raging fire, giving glare and sparks, not warmth but burns. On the floor around that column lie butterflies with burned wings. Once they fluttered in my stomach, but they flew too close. But I still remember, and although I will never step onto this path again, I will never forget. I will quietly stand in the light of my small joys and sigh thinking of you… It is a pity their light is not visible everywhere, as it is blocked by those huge black cabinets.
They are so massive that they obstruct all the light and cast shadows over the rest of this dump. With every year, day, or whatever other unit of time, another piece of dark furniture appears. I do not want to open them. I do not even want to approach them, because behind every door wait drunken tears or a feeling of all-consuming shame. My cowardice lives in one. Another is occupied by self pity. There are many of them here, but today I need one specific cabinet. It is always slightly open.
Inside, Dropkick Murphys plays, intertwined with Grebenshchikov’s “Glasses” and the clinking of bottles. There is a whole bar filled with “liquid friends,” evenings of losing consciousness, and mornings of waking up in vomit-covered clothes. It is so big that when I fling its doors open, I smash warm and joyful memories, and shards of once-bright lightbulbs scatter across the floor.
How could I open this damn cabinet again? Why can’t I close it once and for all? Even after so much time, the path is not overgrown, the doors not warped, and why do they open just as easily? Why, contrary to everything I know about physics, is it so easy for me to return to the past? How do I close these doors forever?
Today, once again, I will shut these doors, hoping they stay closed. That is it. This is the past, and it must not repeat, because I do not want to break all the lightbulbs and remain in complete darkness. Enough. It is time to seal this whole dump and open a new one.
Все на сегодня. До свидания, Солнышко.
Beautiful writing. I hope getting it out of your head and onto the page gave you the release you needed.