“One of the keys to happiness is a bad memory.”

The past few days pushed me under the waves and I’ve ended up somewhere silent, still and sad. I know I’ve tried to sleep all of that through but the little sleep I have got was filled with bad images and hunger (it seems I have forgotten to eat as well). Last night I have swallowed a pill that makes you feel better and combined with some alcohol makes you forget a lot. I know I was sad but the essence of that sadness is gone for me and I can only hope I haven’t cried when I spoke on the phone with a boy (the fact that I have cried at some point during that evening is obvious to me, though).

I am slowly resurfacing to my usual, very much phoney level. I am wondering what price for the chemically induced bad memory will I have to pay (and – at the same time – I am thinking that whatever the price, it was worth it). There is another sleepless night ahead of me but the surface is so close I can almost breathe. And if you can (almost) breathe, you can draw. It’s all back to so called normal…

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“Nobody looks like what they really are on the inside. You don’t. I don’t. People are much more complicated than that. It’s true of everybody.”

We are high as fuck: we have only started climbing up, but I can already tell I am going much further and much deeper than the acid has ever taken me in the past. I am holding his hand as if it was my only anchor; the only thing I can be sure of.

It’s a little bit like making bigger and bigger circles. I don’t know how much time has passed when with yet another trip I fall into something dark and thick, something that transforms me into a scared animal. Even though I still manage to emerge from time to time, I forget all of the words and at least part of me starts to believe there is no way back.

Later on I will have to ask myself about this black cloud and maybe I will be too afraid to name it. But I will know, and there will be no chance to deny it, that the cloud is inside of me; that it’s a part of me.

When I can finally form a short sentence, I just keep on asking whether we are for sure inside. He is still holding my hand and patiently explains to me that we are inside. He also tells me that I am real and so is he. This cycle lasts for around three hours.

Later on I am actually quite sure[1] that I am inside, even though I am still hallucinating like mad. Everything is simple and fun. My hand is still inside of his. I don’t even need to explain why it’s important.

[1] most of the time.

“I can’t trust this world to teach their sons how to treat my daughter. So I will raise her to be a sword, a shield, a spear.”

It’s almost two months past Father’s Day: here and there. Here – where I am at the moment; there – where I was born and grew to become that thing, that left ‘there’ and arrived ‘here’.

My dad was a drunk. My dad is a drunk. Q v P. He somehow was a case of ‘a frog and a prince’ for me. My first ever memory is the evening when my parents had an argument and he threw plates across the kitchen. My mom cried. I was three. That’s how I’ve met the frog. But when my dad wasn’t a drunk, he was the smartest and the most interesting person I have known. At these times he was even more than a prince – he was a fucking king. Maybe that’s why, for many years, I have tried to become smarter, more well-read, better at chess and simply more like him[1] – as if all of that could remove the evil charm from him and maybe the frog would simply disappear – never to come back[2]. At the age of thirteen I got to the point where I just wanted him dead[3]. At the age of twenty I erased him from my life and didn’t look back even once for over a year. When I was in my mid-twenties he has more or less quit drinking. When I was twenty eight he was the one that told me all of my paintings are sad. When I was thirty one he has spent several days by my hospital bed, feeding me soup with a tea spoon.

When we were small, my sister and I, it was my dad that used to tell us bed time stories. I honestly can’t recall even one in which the princess would have to be rescued by a man – most of the times it was her that not only saved herself but also the knight; quite often, in the process, she would also befriend the scary monster or the dragon.

Few years back K asked me if my dad ever verbalised some sort of sorrow of not having sons, but only daughters. No, he has never. Truth to be told – until that day it has never even crossed my mind that this could be an issue.

My dad didn’t raise me, even though, paradoxically, he made me the way I am now[4]. There is so much bad and it’s not exactly clear to me how – with all of that, there is still space for some good. But there is good there as well – and for that I sometimes think I could probably even produce the sound that resembles “thank you”… That is – maybe, probably not, but in potentia, I could – if we were ever to speak about feelings and similar non-intellectual stuff. But we are not. It might be better this way, after all.

[1] the motherfucking King.

[2] and we would live happily ever after.

[3] it didn’t stop me from attempts to become even more like him, only now I also hated myself for being ‘daddy’s girl’.

[4] or – to be more precise – I’ve made myself that way – for him or and because of him.

“You have a grand gift for silence, Watson. It makes you quite invaluable as a companion.” aka “I do not speak as I think, I do not think as I should, and so it all goes on in helpless darkness.”

– I’ve told you all of that so many times before… – I shrug and light yet another cigarette. He is still looking at me with the same expression on his face. After a brief moment he pushes an ashtray towards me. We stay silent for a little bit longer and allow our breaths to synchronise.

– You are never really talking about it – at best you may tell some kind of a background story – but then you always change the subject – his finger lands on my cheekbone and he draws an invisible line that ends on my chin. There is a shadow of a faint smile on his face.

– Maybe some stories should remain untold – I shrug yet again because I can’t control it anymore. I don’t like these moments. I don’t like when he tries to hold me still; to make me say the words I don’t want to say – words I don’t want to know – words I don’t know. I don’t like when he looks at me and there is this softness in his eyes – so full, so innocent, and so defenceless. I push one of my cheeks out with a tongue and look up. Just next to the lamp there is a big chunk of plaster missing. Somehow this grey, shallow and rough stain attracts attention and – in a way – is much more visible, much more important and much more real than the surrounding whiteness. I think to myself that it looks like a scraped skin if you fall on the concrete – usually it will be on the knee or an elbow – one of these sharp sticking out edges that our bodies are made of. So – at the moment, in the room – there is he (with the soft shadow around his eyes) and there is the hole in the ceiling (that looks like a scraped knee) and there is me (thinking to myself that my mind is also like that knee or elbow and is made out only from sharp edges so it’s no surprise that it got broken and bruised up). I also think to myself that you can’t really describe or tell a story about scrapes like that – because – how on Earth could you? They simply are. And they leave their marks on you; they change you; they become a part of you… Other than that – there is nothing more to add. There is even no point to ask for a band aid because probably in the end I’d have to wrap it around my whole head…