That Midnight Sun…
At times, the terrible suspicion that the most beautiful, most innocent, most naive and pure part of me might have died with him sneaks upon me. The lightest, the brightest. Always more often I happen to be thinking it is not real affection which keeps people together, and it takes a super-human effort to drag myself back into reality and believe it is not so. As if, after all, it was all regulated by a mutual exchange of favors, to keep each other company and trust loneliness a lie for the space of a moment shared, without each knowing much about the other. In fact, almost nothing. I am further and further out, always more detached, isolated, exiled.
At times, nothing thrills me. I have been confusing the taste of emotion with that of passing time, struggling against boredom. Boredom, the deepest, filthiest, greyest boredom. And I ask myself where has that girl gone: she who smiled at life, who wanted to be bright, to fight, never surrender. I think about it with a little sadness, often melancholy. Other times, it becomes an emptiness impossible to fill up, which devours me, mad hunger, and all becomes confused and meaningless, and then it is easy to sink in desperation.
In the Big City I have walked for hours, without a destination. I felt the buildings closing in on me, and I was suffocated by the concrete, the dusty heat, the cars and buses that seemed to drive faster in my direction, and all started spinning and I could not control the panic and I could not cross the street and I had to lean against the wall for a second and breathe, telling myself all was alright and I was still alive, yes, I am still alive.
It was all bitterness that which did not hurt. A distorted memory all that never happened. I went down, and down, and I could only tell myself ‘I don’t want to, I don’t want to’. I don’t want to stop falling. It seemed so easy. It felt good not to have to control anything anymore, and just keep spiralling down, down where there is no bottom, down, out, far away from all the others, growing apart from them, not feeling the floors and ceilings anymore, down, down where no hand can reach you, down where all that is uttered is a lie, away from sounds and away from colours, and away from all that is life.
It got so bad at one point I had to kick myself out of myself, out of the bed, out of the room, out of the house. And I started copying out all of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s letters in the manic and obsessive and compulsive way I know, for no reason at all. What a useless occupation that must have seemed. It saved my heart, it saved my head. I was thrilled, again. I was not dead.
I was alive, I am still, still, alive.
I kept being afraid I could not control it. The thoughts kept getting out of hand, and I was lost among words in my brain which had no connection. I was no longer in this world: I was scared, and lost, in a dimension neither earth nor sky.
I wake up in the mornings, inside myself. I cannot get out. I am afraid of the future and perceive all the beautiful instants – whenever I can recognize them – as fragile and sad – a prelude to catastrophe. Moods swing, from one extreme to the other, ferociously. It is almost impossible to feel steady, but I manage to, sometimes. It takes all my strength: I struggle with my head and wrestle, fight, all day, in the night. I drag the thoughts out of their black cave, I feel my heart bleeding, but I manage, sometimes. Most of the time.
I found out the secret: I have to enjoy the beauty of the moment as long as Beauty is beside me, love her with all the love I am capable of, and remember it when the darkness is here.
I do not understand why this is happening. Why can’t I feel any connection? Why does every smile seem empty and in a hurry around me? I feel cold, more and more often. It is so cold in my heart. The complete inability to feel others. It happens and I am afraid.
I work. I keep working, more and more. It is the only way I can resist the temptation to fall – I win. When I feel myself sinking I throw myself in the core of reality, the miserable dirty heart of it, and I work, and I work, and I work. And I win, I win, I win. I haven’t fallen too deep, yet.
Still, I find it hard to be part of something. And I don’t care that much, after all. I see them all getting busy, running, being active, strong, resisting, believing, and all over again, getting busy, being active, running… I feel as if I were sitting in the far corner of a theatre, watching the show, the comedy, the tragedy. And I’m there, all alone, in my little corner, pushing myself on not to sink for good, but not expecting much, after all. I keep working and working on my own – losing weight, hours of sleep – working and working, but I don’t feel part of them. Sometimes I can only think of leaving. Others, I feel I have done everything wrong, like when you get on a train and you are going in the wrong direction: you have that feeling, that horrible doubt.
I have been told I am arrogant and theatrical and dramatic and annoying and obsessive and a snob. I have also been told – and been given – the most beautiful things a human being is capable of. I am so grateful I cry at times, and others I cry because I don’t know how to get out of this black solitude. The truth is that I bear so much sadness in my heart that I always feel it is better to bury it deep, deep inside, deep, deep down.
Another day has gone, another week. When I open my eyes I always feel blessed still, and I guess all that has to be done now is to keep working and being thankful for those who love me – and I know they do, so much. Deep inside – deep down – I do believe some kind of light will shine.