Becoming wiser


I think wise people are all the same, and I think anyone with that many experiences will converge to the same wisdom. An averaged-out boring template of a person. An indifference by knowing happiness will be followed by misery. A calmness by knowing misery will be followed by happiness. But the greatest wisdom is that little evil overcomes great good, and there always is little evil in the world. There is an atom of depression in every wise person.

I am too old to lie to myself, but young enough to reject others’ lies. Most of the potential is gone. I have acquired some wisdom, if only by the sheer number of my unsuccessful attempts. But can an old man push a boulder he couldn’t push in his youth?

Maybe this is the start of my acceptance; this is admittance. With an amount of honesty that only a wise person can have, I say that I cannot look in the mirror and say, even unconfidently, that there is much potential left.



A Pure Apology

Nothing remains but memories of feelings. And only now do I have a more objective view, perhaps (somewhat) similar to yours.

I still remember you on occasion, when the moon is especially bright, or when the night is especially dark and missing something.

This is a pure apology; nothing but an admittance of guilt and an expression of regret.

I am sorry.

I guess this is the classic procedure, how things like this end; nothing out of the ordinary. Many stages, but at the end is a pure 100% apology. A letter devoid of anything but guilt, regret, and memories. A letter so unlike anything I have written for you in the past.
But I stand by my apology, I was wrong and I regret having written any of them.

It’s a near impossible task for me to write more, though I want to express more. I want to remain in touch, if only by writing letters that you cannot read. But how do I address you? A past lover, or a past opponent? A stranger ? but I cannot see you as a stranger anymore.

It must be part of the classic procedure. If the apology is pure, after it comes nothing.


A Random Tuesday

There is the two of us.

There is the distance between us, as if our separation was a physical consequence of repulsion.

There is the moon tonight, bright, unmatched, and incomparable. There are its many irregular reflections on the waves of the sea.

There are feelings, too complex to explain or to fully understand. But I understand fear, and my fears are coming true. I am beginning to question if I have feelings, or memories of feelings.

There is time. I remember you tonight, and I remember all the many times I remembered you before. I know that time will pass. Some people will become happy and go to heaven, some will become unhappy and go to hell, but, eventually, everyone will become nothing and go nowhere.

It’s been two years, and I still remember the late days of August and the early days of September.
It’s wrong to remember after this much time, I admit.
That is why I fear time; not because it will make me forget you, but because it makes it more wrong to remember you.

But I ask of you: Do you remember when I said that the moon reminds me of you?

Time will pass, and I will be defeated.
I’ll see nothing in the moon except an ordinary planet, nothing in this Tuesday except a random Tuesday, and nothing in you except memories of feelings.


How old am I?

It’s frustrating, to have so much to say but to not be able to say it accurately.

But let me try.
I don’t anymore think it would be unfortunate to die.
I know my birthday is coming up soon, but am I 23 or am I becoming 23?

Either way, I think I have lived for too long. I wish I died when I was 18, when I was hateful and angry towards everyone but myself.
I remember my 18th birthday. At midnight, the early moments of being 18, I was chatting online with a female friend. She told me I would remember her whenever I thought of my 18th birthday. Well, it’s funny that I only thought of my 18th birthday when I’m about to become 24 (or 23) years old.

I partially agree that you become wiser as you age. I say that as I acknowledge that my 18 years old tried his best. With all the hate I have towards my life, I still admit that my 18 years old self really tried his best. Which leads me to the painful realization: It couldn’t really have been otherwise. When I look in the mirror, I don’t hate what I did, I hate what I am.

It must be difficult to hear for my 18 years old self, but I wish I was someone else, someone who could have been otherwise. I still mourn every loss my 18 year old self had, but in addition I mourn the losses between then and now.

Could I be considered a terminally injured soldier on the battlefield, asking: please let it end?


I now pronounce you

My dear, I am marrying not for the presence, but for the absence, not to seek, but to avoid.

After I couldn’t get my prize, I wished to marry someone that considered my their prize, and I am not sure if I am doing you good or harm.
Don’t you deserve someone that viewed you as his prize?
Perhaps this is all irrelevant to our legal commitment.

You finish your studies next year, correct? Then let that be the time.
Let there be apparent joy and many people, and let there be none more miserable and lonely than me.
You will be the prettiest girl in the whitest of dresses, the dream of a million men, but not mine.
Let us greet them with firm handshakes and wide smiles, and before long we will age and pass away.

Before long, it would be as if my prize and I have never existed. As if I have never dreamed, never sought, never cried, never waited, and never moved on.

But before all of that, before everything: let me spend another year in pointless hope.
Let me remain free from the legal binding that you are mine and I am yours. Let it not be signed in paper that some dreams can never come true.
Let me wait, and what is there to do besides waiting?


The Easiest Part

is seeing you genuinely happy.

Why should it bother me?
Maybe it is something close to the definition of jealousy.

La jalousie. That was the word we were taught when the French lesson was about personalities.
Remember the question about your ideal partner?
You were there taking the same class, but how could I limit you in words (no matter French or English)?
Discutez avec une partenaire!

Do you really remember?
Has that memory ever been replayed?

Today I am further from you that I have ever been, and tomorrow I will be even further.

The easiest part is wishing all the best for you knowing it will be far from me.

“Such is love; the easiest part of it is most difficult.”


It can be fair to be unlucky

If it was by merit, then I cannot complain. If it was by chance, then I cannot complain.
But I guess the question becomes: what if it was by merit, and my merit was assigned to me by chance?

Hope, or the list of things I do not consider impossible.
My analysis of that list does not exceed noting that they’re possible at any time that isn’t now.
There is a limit, though, when there are enough writings, and enough memories. There can be too many possibilities and too many possible times.

Persistence, or grit.
We were solid as a rock. Emotionless as a rock. Expressionless as a rock.
Only immense heat and pressure could make something so solid yet so dull.

As the sun rises, as I see the skin of my hands, as it gets more and more difficult to fall asleep, it pains me to realize that today is not the day. I am keeping count, you see, on the wrinkles of my skin.
I’ve hoped for so long, and I am starting to doubt.

When will it ever happen?
Possibly tomorrow.


As the night begins, I descend.
My comfortable place is below that of a human, but it’s comfortable.

As I enter, the walls start to dance. I feel light, and smile at the dancing walls.

I tire myself dancing, and then I start to regain my mind.

Eventually, I start to remember. Not the terrible memories anymore, but the one complex inhumane feeling they evoke.
I remember that I’m comfortable, but I am below the place of a human.

How long has it been? I can’t tell, but there are so many empty bottles.
Are there more bottles than ugly memories? I can’t tell, but there are enough memories to want to be absent-minded, and enough bottles to be absent-minded tonight.

By everything

Barely conscious, but barely able to feel any kind of pain.
Only the essential pains I feel.

By God, by every divine and undivine being, I will not remain helpless towards my own life.
By all the angels that have guided me when I was once worthy, and by all the devils that grasp my mind today. By myself, by everything.

I swear, and swearing is meant to be most honest.
I swear and all of those testify.

On an indeterminate day, at an indeterminate time, I will be most determined, as determined as a living thing can be.

The importance of breakfast

The ugly known was behind us, and in front us was exemption from pain through exemption from everything.
I reminded him of everything, and he raised no objections. We were in complete agreement.
I didn’t want to rush him; it had to come naturally, flowing out, not being flushed out.

We took a moment to mourn our failure to matter to anyone. We knew if anyone was affected by this, it would be only through projecting it to their own lives; what happens to us could happen to them, and that’s sad.

I waited, and he stood there motionless. “A spectacle of imbecility only to be equaled by himself.”(1)
I recognized his answer the same way I recognized my job applications were rejected: through waiting. A silent “no” that I couldn’t argue with. A more delicate rejection. A rejection that utilizes how hope always exists but gets smaller through time; after enough time has passed, you will begin to hear that silent “no”.

He defied every argument and emotion that we both knew and have known for years.
For his tears I held no more pity; he disgusted me. His incompetence was evident, and it has condemned me to live solely for the fear of dying. From now on, I would live because no car has hit me, and my binge-smoking has not yet burned my body from the inside.

We sat, enemies that cannot be separated. His incompetence will limit me, and my thoughts will torture him. We painted white over all of this; A new page, we thought. Hope came about, teasing with a sarcastic smile: “Everything will be better tomorrow. Trust me, I never lie.”

Is there a greater cowardice than being frightened of the act of fleeing? Than being frozen by fear to remain motionless, too scared to run away but also too scared to fight?

I passed by a grocery store later that evening, and bought bread and some cheese. I ran out of both, and I needed them for tomorrow’s breakfast.

(1) Charles Dickens. Great Expectations.