In the silent house she sits, and thinks of you, writes a letter – which you will never receive.
Long ago you met, and you loved, in the silent house – and then you left.
Her, in her poor, wounded heart, she cannot leave – she lives in the bubbles of her memories, for you long forgotten.
Such is the law of love, a much asymmetrical feeling, one party always staying put, while the other floats away…
Away from the bubbles, gathering dust, and tears, in the silent house.
City lights… I looked around, taking in the anonymous passersby, the broken asphalt, the absurd glitter of a dying world. The line was dead, already: you had gone, far, further than where I could ever reach you.
There would be no return, you had chosen the path, away, from me, from “us”. Us was no longer, no more than this city, soon to be reduced to ashes. I looked up at the sky, and beyond the thin layer of clouds I saw them: the dark birds of premonition.
Pause. Dead silence. I sensed their arrival, the slim silver bodies of the avengers, the megatons of fate. Revenge from those we had enslaved, betrayed, starved and plundered through the ages: now we would pay the price, for cowardice and hate, for being, to the rest of mankind, disposable vermin.
The phone line was dead, then the purple glow of Armageddon. The End.
For us this is sacred land, soil enriched by the blood of our ancestors, in their endless fight against invaders.
As children we were told the stories, the lives of those heroes, alive today in the trees and our souls, and we were taught how to fight too.
So, when they came, huge, fat and white, full of water, we had no difficulty in recognising them: the thieves, the rapists, without honour or real courage, armoured and surrounded by their devilish machines.
The sun was high, the air hot, we could see them sweating under their armour, as their predecessors always did.
The eagle told us, their numbers, where they were, where their ammunition dump was; then the Son of the Eagle led us, it took only one small bomb to erase the thieves off the surface of our world.
I see them: there are two of them, ordinary blokes, a little old-fashioned. They are taking the stars away: they are stealing our night sky, never to return. Around us is the mere emptiness of a poor world, half built, incomplete, empty of life, devoid of joy. Who are these people? Are they even human? Or are they mock-ups, machines pretending to be like us? Who control them? Do they have masters, or do they have their own mind, obnoxious, intrusive, ignoring beauty, perhaps even hating beauty?
Now it becomes clearer to me: they are unbuilding our world, destroying all traces that once we were here, taking human life apart, stones and all… No more stars, neither in the sky, nor in our souls: this maybe how it will finish, a deconstruction of us, what we stand for, poetry, children, sex, all creation. How can this be? Us, never again? Help!
“Would he lie to me?”
The insidious thought crossed her mind, lingered, before she recalled “he” had been gone for several months, in fact five months, and she was now free.
It might have been a great passion, the kind of encounter that leaves one bruised, ecstatic, changed, all at once, but she was glad now that it was over.
Still: was he lying, cheating, pretending?
Did it matter, as now her mind turned to this unquestionable fact: “he” was now but one of the old flames?
Image: Félix Vallotton (1865-1925) – La haine (1908)
I quote verbatim from a letter received from Julian (RIP).
No, my once dear Honoré, you did not have to do it, and I don’t believe a word from you about “being sorry”. The truth, from my perspective anyway, is that you satisfied your petty jealousy, your ambition to have my beautiful wife – and, probably, others as well – play a role she would vehemently refuse in real life, and by that gratuitous murder of me, get rid of your most loyal and reliable friend. As you can see, I still have the strength to reply to your insolent article! You have no honour, Honoré, success and money have rotten your once noble spirit: you are merely after commercial success based on cheap lust.
Your stealing my Facebook page should have been a clear warning, to all of us, that you were leaving the realm of honesty and humanity, for the sake of satisfying your basest desires. Your readers will judge. I consider the lowest insult the way you have since used my wife’s friendship with an old childhood friend, to insinuate damn lies about a sexual relationship that never was. Sarah is far above such behaviour: she’s as faithful as a wife ever was, and will continue to support her husband against your assaults on history and truth. Your own miserable domestic failures cannot be an excuse for those lies.
The same applies to your treatment of my dear friend Melissa. She is, always was, an angel. I confided to you my childhood memories, and you turned them into a pathetic story of revenge and, again, cheap erotica! Shame on you. My Melissa had never anything to do with any plot, with spies, and that girl of dubious reputation you described as “Melissa of Köpenick”. The latter is, I admit, a bit of a flirt I indulged with, during my recovery in Berlin. Not only you got the facts wrong, but you invented on top of all some more pathetic stories of your own.
But, would you say, you are a writer, and this is fiction… To hell it is not. You are playing with people’s lives, destroying their reputation, killing them without appeal. Despiccable! You wrote: “you became cumbersome, obstructive, calamitous.” This is in fact a good description of your own behaviour as an author, disrespectful to your characters, lacking any care for their feelings.
Sarah was not best pleased to hear that nonsense about me trafficking arms. I had much to explain. She’s now extremely angry with you, for good reasons. We are now talking about some form of action, as we, your characters, can use to express our profound disgust, and our refusal to cooperate. You have been warned.
Image: Aladár Körösfői-Kriesch, Man in Pursuit of Death