Friday, April 25

MOMENTS

For a while life made me sad, which is why I didn't write as much. While cycling through town, I almost felt like a sponge, able to absorb everyone’s sadness, allowing everyone's tears inside my body, amplifying what I felt inside. It was as if everyone was grieving at the same time, and I was there to witness their grief, to record it and experience it as my own. After four years of completely ignoring his existence, I went to visit Oreste at his Italian coffeebar. Somehow I thought good coffee would cure me, but the only thing I noticed was how much older he looked. His eyes looked watery and there were some grey hairs in his beard. Of course he recognized me straight away. He made me some strong coffee and handed me the paper cup as if it were the Holy Grail. I felt grateful for Oreste’s presence, his ability to pronounce words like ‘mortadella’ and ‘provolone picante’, which made a normal sandwich sound like poetry. I told myself that this sadness would pass, that Oreste would always be there for me, selling his coffee and mortadella, that there was no reason to absorb everyone’s emotions, that I could just enjoy life like he did. While cycling home I remembered a quote from a movie, a quote which helped me to detach a bit: “Moments. Life consists of a series of moments. Let them go.”  

Monday, April 14

MEMORIES

A few months ago an ex-boyfriend from London tried to contact me again. I was tired of boyfriends, especially the ones from London, their designer clothing, their goals which seemed simple and shallow, their unhealthy obsession with their looks. M. seemed genuinely interested in me for a while. He sent me a few e-mails asking how I was doing. I told him I was doing great, something I always answer, despite the circumstances. He told me he had his own company in Luxembourg, something to do with technology, and had not been back in London for a while. Part of me expected him to invite me, something which I would politely decline of course, and part of me feared the confrontation with my past. I was attached to my own version of our memories, the way we had explored life when we were younger, our ability to be happy with anything, anywhere, even without cash. I worried he would not like me, the older, more cynical version of the girl he used to love. I worried about losing weight, getting the right haircut, driving a new car. After a few weeks he stopped replying to my e-mails. Apparently I had supplied him with enough information, or the information which I gave him didn’t fulfill his needs. Maybe I wanted him to tell me what I always tell myself: ‘Don’t be lonely, Margot. The entire universe is inside you.’