4) Awake
You were late but you arrived. You’re walking with purpose right now. You didn’t sleep great last night on the sand, but well enough to know that you’re craving water and a direction. You’ve got the beginnings of an entry plan drawn up: find an internet café, login to an online messenger, find out which mate of yours is near enough to pick you up, and that’s enough for now. Do internet cafés still exist in 2021? The remote nature of the beachside resort tells you that a dodgy connection and subsequent need for tourists to access local wifi are as good a chance you’ll have as any to find a place to get online. Sizing up the resort from the roadside, you make out no more than a few rows of narrow streets either side of the main road you’re now entering from. It shouldn’t be too difficult to locate all the commercial buildings and make your way on to the next town, just in case. You’ve got time though. It couldn’t be later than nine in the morning. Ok maybe ten but still, you’ve got time. You make your way strategically down the main street, scanning busier exits. Most crossroads are populated by none to two people. It’s quiet and calm. You find that rather pleasing, even though it doesn’t make your odds of success any higher. Reaching a fourth intersection, a wider crosswalk indicates a busier turn. Having only passed a thin bakery and frail supermarket, you figure it’s time to explore the back streets and take a left. The sun strikes as the shades of the building make way to an uphill road winding around a one-story church, barely distinguishable from the surrounding sandy houses. The only marker is a small black spire and a stained oval window.
You lost faith in most things at a fairly young age. All the religions offered up on the menu seemed comical at best. Why would you believe in the universe being directed by human-like beings? All the books were written by humans after all. Isn’t it narcissistic of us to imagine we have a say in how this universe was formed? Aren’t we but simple observers? The church isn’t especially pretty, but it’s nicer than the other buildings. Most magnificent architecture can be found in religious temples. At least religions have that going for them. You guess that’s where the purposes of religion and art intertwine in a way. Both set out to express gratitude through sharing. One is far less constrained and has mostly played a role in stopping, not initiating wars. Your reflexion leads you to a fork in the path and a plaza opens up on the side adjacent to the church. Tin chairs and pop-up tables are scattered around the square, indicating the presence of restaurants. A middle-aged couple with two younger kids are hard at work trying to wrestle mostly uneaten plates into their children’s mouths. An older women is contemplating the church as she sips on her coffee. You enjoy watching the people-watchers. There’s a certain serenity that washes over you when you see someone else doing absolutely nothing other than observing. She catches your eye and offers a genuine smile. You nod timidly and walk over to the café. The entrance is a rounded hole in the beige wall, with a small glass screen on the side to shield the visible bar from the hot light. You enter and are greeted by the person behind the counter — most likely the owner. There are no more than five stools perched by the wooden bar, with only space for a lonesome table in the corner opposite what must be a toilet. You don’t make out any computers, but there’s a password scribbled in chalk on a black slate leaned against the beer taps. Slight change in plan. You’re going to have to concoct a story for the well-fed man behind the counter. As you sit down on the stool, you notice he’s sporting a confused grimace on his face. It has been two or three days since you left the hospital, and you’ve only consumed discarded bread and fountain water. You didn’t have any shelter, so your skin has begun peeling and more importantly is quite dusty. A year ago, your baby-faced features would’ve simply indicated a lack of hygiene, but now the dirt on your head suggests that you clearly have been without permanent lodging for a while. He probably thinks you’re homeless, so what approach to take?
“Hi, how are you?” Original as ever.
“Good thanks. What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering if it would be possible to get a coffee, and borrow a phone. I lost my friends this morning and I need a phone call.”
“I think we have coffee here.”
The grimace turns into a smile as your youthful anxiety betrays any evil intentions. He doesn’t seem too surprised that you don’t have a phone though, and offers his, picking it out of his pocket and unlocking it.
“Thank you! Do you mind if I connect to facebook? Just to get the number.”
“Sure thing. And here’s your coffee.”
You thank him again and get online. It’s probably been a week at least since you hunched over in front of a screen. The artificial light seems too bright for the dim room and your head is already rushing with an uncomfortable sensation, akin to chain-smoking a whole pack of cigarettes. You realise that you hadn’t been stressed lately quite simply because you hadn’t been glued to a screen. There had been no vibrations in your pocket, beckoning your attention for a valueless conversation. There had been no pinging with notification banners that used to direct your mood. No jealousy nor anticipation, and maybe you actually felt good. You decide to hurry the process in order to abandon the phone as soon as possible. A quick scan online reveals that you have a friend 15 miles east. More of an acquaintance, but on good enough terms to help you out. Plus their feed indicates they’re on holiday. You give them a call and they pick up. Success. They’ll come by in an hour to pick you up. You hand the phone back to its owner, explaining you’ll be around for another hour before you can pay. He doesn’t seem fussed and offers you a food menu. You take your order, the one vegetarian dish, and make your way to the terrace. Even without having any shelter for a while, you actually feel more comfortable outside. The natural light more pleasing to your eyes; the song of the wind more gentle than the AC on your ears.
A moment passes. You’re feeling healthier but tired. Your body hadn’t processed actual minerals and vitamins in a while, so most of your energy is labouring in your digestive tract. You lean back and let the early-afternoon warmth sooth you to sleep. Your friend makes their arrival known with a slap on the back.
“It’s been a good minute.”
“Yeah it has. How are you? Thanks for coming to pick me up.”
“No worries. I should be the one asking how you are though. You look in a state. What the hell you been up to?”
“Ugh. Long story, but essentially been homeless for the last month.”
Your friend laughs. It doesn’t surprise them given the contexts in which you’ve met before. Most times they’d seen you, you were completely intoxicated and dancing terribly in grimy clubs. You order another coffee for the both of you and expand on your recent adventures. Time to be vulnerable and rip off the bandage; there’s no point in lying to them or yourself anyhow. They spend most of the story laughing and interjecting some sarcastic oh-how-shockings and how-unlike-yous. The hospital is a bit trickier to get out of your system. Your throat dries up. You croak your way through the first sentence before pausing for a sip. Their smiling eyes fade into a more concerned posture, and they don’t interrupt. When you’re done, they grab your shoulder, shaking it comfortingly. They’re glad you’re still alive. You both laugh. They’ll bring you back to theirs, just a 10 minute drive away. They’re headed back home tomorrow actually and there’s plenty of room in the car. You hadn’t thought that far ahead. What will you do when you get back? Who knows, but it’s not a problem for this moment. It’s a lovely day. You can still hear the ocean mixing with the cicadas, and you’ve got good company. Your friend pays the bill, you promise to get them back, and both meander by the church. They parked further uphill, so you enjoy a stroll through the quiet streets. Everyone’s probably having their afternoon nap by this point. The town is all yours.
Back in the car your friend offers a cigarette. You haven’t smoked since your little overdose and don’t feel compelled to. You politely decline. Maybe you’ll pick them up again later, and that’s ok, but for now you’re simply satisfied allowing your lunch to regenerate your blood. The car makes its way out of town. As you exit, you pass the ocean road, picking up speed with your tangled hair dancing to the melody of the wind through the open windows. The car turns inland and the road finds its path between rocky hills. Up and down you go, and open-pit mind makes its appearance in the distance. It’s carved out the side of a mountain. You’re reminded that someone once said we discover to exploit for our benefit. The word exploit seems misplaced. We should discover for peace of mind. It’s a calming thought that we could build our species into an empathetic society, where days are measured by senses and not hours of productivity. You’re reminded of fights you’ve engaged in, trying to solve our clashes with the environment through new technologies. How many more mountains will we have to slay to create a new sustainable paradigm? How much more material will we cultivate without ever replenishing? There’s hope. There’s hope in the simpler life, but first it comes with one responsibility: to escape human narcissism, to escape your own narcissism. When society’s finished patting itself on the back for thinking about changing, things might change. The unwritten laws we live by will change. Lose your self-importance and breathe. You smile. You’re minuscule, just like that tiny 1%. The wind picks up and you get lost in the sun-soaked bushes atop crumbling stones.
The next day you’re on the road again. Dimensions, measured in hours, pass. A familiar entry shows its face next to the highway signpost. You’ve returned to the city. Your friend pulls up on the sidewalk near your apartment block. They say there’s a party later tonight in one of those lakeside mansions. You’re not in a mood to party per se, but you’d rather not be alone tonight. You make a mental note of the address, thank them with a clumsy embrace over the gear stick, and make your way to the block. You had left spare keys in the mailbox. They’re still there. Your apartment is the way you left it. A faint smell of gastric acid still present, concentrating near the wide-open bathroom door. Dusk has begun settling by the time you finish cleaning. You’ve done enough for now, and you allow yourself a beer and cigarette on the balcony — the first ones you’ve had in a long time. Looking out over the city, you enjoy the dancing lights dispersed like a cluster of fireflies over the amorphous blob of buildings, reflecting lazily off the lake. Memories of an ancient belief pass through your mind. You remember that time when you loved; that time when you would imagine your lover safely asleep in the arms of the city shelter. You think of all the thousands of homes you can see. So many different stories unfolding at different speeds, but all sharing this moment in this dimension. You finish your beer, grab your bike, and make your way to the lakeside.
It’s two in the morning, but you haven’t gotten yourself into your usual state of inebriety. You’re enjoying the company of close friends you hadn’t seen in a month. The laughing and dancing are good enough. A DJ is present, having fun for a change. Even a bartender has been hired. You never really knew that you wanted to be a bar tender. But, seeing them surrounded by vulnerable people you realise how connecting they are. They get to spread joy and are repaid in musical delight. Could be a good path to keep in mind for a later time. You feel a natural urge to relieve yourself, so you make your way over to the house. It’s a four-storey house, pool protruding a-top the first one, with the top three stacked in a semi-circular staircase. Golden rims on the flowery railings blatantly call out the wealth exuding out of the place. The lot of land is in a prime location, only minutes from the city, yet completely isolated by a variety of pine trees, lilacs, and the odd palm. The lawn all around the house is large enough to host a small stadium crowd. You appreciate the space and welcoming hosts, but can’t fully reconcile the pleasance of the moment with the screaming overconsumption. Normally you’d drown those thoughts in liquor. Tonight they don’t bother you as much though. In through sliding glass doors and find the nearest group chomping on cigars. You ask for directions to the lavatory and make it as the pressure on your bladder was just becoming uncomfortable. Rinsing your hands, you catch yourself in a mirror. You’re hit at once; a shock to your system. You look good. That’s not a thought that had crossed your mind before. Not bad. You make your way back to the grass and join the group bouncing by the speakers. A new person has joined. They’re dancing particularly energetically, arms and legs moving vigorously in opposing directions. They’re barely on beat and that makes you smile. They turn around and you catch their eyes. Then there it is. That face again. The tender smile under nostalgic eyes. A shy look holds your eyes in theirs. Violins begin playing inside your chest. A feeling begins to emerge from the depths of a space long forgotten. You suddenly realise; you can still feel.
You hadn’t met before, but that memory from the balcony was no longer a figment of your mind. The belief was no longer a memory; it was back. Your eyes still locked, you both move closer, trying to keep in time with a clumsy flailing walk until you’re side by side. There’s no need for small talk in this moment. The music takes the lead as you’re connected through the sound. Your ears guiding every move, instinct the only director. You’re a little scared. It’s the good kind of scared. It’s the “I have no control over what comes next” scared, the “I have to roll the dice” scared. You feel a connection, but nothing’s ever certain. Should you back away? You can’t. This moment holds you here. The moment tells you that you belong with it. So you stay. The song reaches a quieter bridge, relieving the sweaty bodies. They look at you.
“I feel like we’ve met before.”
“I don’t know if we’ve met before, but you’re really cute.”
Oh god. That was a terrible line. Are they going to step away? To your surprise they laugh. That laugh is all you hear, an ugly cackle more beautiful than any symphony ever written. It instantly permeates from them to you. You’re both closer, their arm wrapped around yours. A “how original” and “I don’t care” simultaneously are exhaled between two smiles, and you kiss. The invisible connection materialises at the very edge of your lips. Your cracked skin losing itself in the microscopic crevices of theirs. “A une passante” forms in your mind, “la douceur qui fascine et le plaisir qui tue. Un eclair…” That flash is the moment you want to last forever. You remember that it will last forever. This moment can never be done-over. This space in time can not be erased or rerecorded. You entangle yourselves closer. The odour of cigarettes and perfume escape and all you’re left with is the beautiful scent of dopamine and norepinephrine; the drugs you’d been trying to replace. You continue dancing with your bodies close. The sky is recapturing some of its blueness as Orion puts down his bow. The crowd has thinned out and the few remaining mouths are yawning. They catch your hand to pull you away.
“Let me show you something.”
You follow them through a small aperture in a lilac bush. You pause to notice the flowers are still blossoming. You didn’t think it was the season, but you definitely won’t complain. The garden gives way to a sycamore forest above dry dirt and crackling branches underfoot. They bring you to the edge by the lake. You lay down on the narrow sandy beach, both tired and smiling. Eyes closed, you embrace. The sky is getting lighter. It won’t be long until sunrise. They fall asleep by your side, but you’re not tired. You contemplate the beauty of it all. The 1975s playing in your mind with the melody “hey kids we’re all just the same, oh what a shame, and how I’d like to go to Paris again.” Some addictions are happier than others. Some beliefs are happier than others. You know you’ll move through them. You know that love can play its game with you again. You’re ready for it. You take out your phone and play Iris. Like in the hospital room, you can feel all your problems getting pulled out in front of you. “When everything’s made to be broken, I just want you to know who I am.” This time you begin to see answers. The sun rising over the lake reveals ripples from the nearby ducks forming spirals. It’s just you and the spirals again. You begin scribbling words in the sand.
Who will have the time
To read more than a poem
With three simple lines
Well you definitely aren’t any good at haikus, but you’re definitely still alive. The water sways up and down, the lake’s cymbals drowning out any thought. Thank god there isn’t more than this. How many people had you met in the past year? How many new stories? How many intertwining lives? How many new songs shone into your life? What if you could love again? The long strong cello notes are seeping into your gut. The fluttering violins make one with the butterflies you hadn’t felt, or allowed yourself to feel, since you last met betrayal. You remember the thoughts that you’d make, lying in your bed. You remember seven years old thinking of what they’d say when you die. You remember the newspaper headlines crying out your demise. You remember fearing leaving this life. You learned again to love life. Good, because a life without love, god that’s just insane. The sun’s rising. The light goes from marine blue to a cloudy grey. The sun’s rising. You’re connected to life. Life is perfect. This moment in time is perfect just like the others. Actual strings sound from your phone and the words move through invisible mediums into your mind:
“But if I be wrong, if I be right
Let me be here with you”
