Thoughts

It’s a good idea to decide what you want to do when you grow up at some point in your life. Even if you’re 40 years old. Until then, you are most likely the result of years in which life has lived you instead of you living it.

When you’re a child, you measure yourself on the door frame. See how much you’ve grown. You don’t know yet that you will remain a child inside no matter how high the line drawn with the pencil on the door frame would reach.

Because they have a worse memory. That is the memory of pain. The women’s cell doesn’t seem to keep the memory of pain intact. They get a burn now from the coffee kettle, then, the next time, although they vaguely remember as if something went wrong, they try again. Twice, three times, seven times. This time with a cloth. Instead, they should buy an espresso machine. But no, what do you think? Still with the same damn kettle. Cause they only like that flavor. Cause they don’t know another. And they don’t even want to know.

“Darling, at the first misunderstanding, I slammed the door, and I didn’t look back: the pond is full of fish,” you hear at the table next to you. Of course, that can happen. You certainly did it too. But that was when you didn’t love him. When you surgically cut, finished the operation, and put the stitches in without ever going to the post-surgery visit.

He tears you apart. With suitable words. Suitable for a divorce. Or so they seem to you. Maybe there are just words thrown out of fear. But that’s how you feel them. In a heart put on bypass. For years. Since you decided that yours no longer can take it and that the arteries clogged by the previously caused pain must be bypassed. At any cost. So you quickly pay the price, pull the zipper off the trolley, and run.

Things are either black or white. The shitty grey you make yourself when reality doesn’t suit you. And this gray is called “complicated” because it sounds better than stupid, cause of course… the soap opera has left its mark on everyday life. But deep inside, you know it’s black or white.

Oh, my favorite trick in the whole world. Which never failed. At least so far. Mix it like this: take a confusing piece of a situation with a crossroads, a few kilos of the dust of imagination and self-knowledge until homogenized.

American movies are good. Well, not all, but most. Because they have an executive producer. Which cuts and hangs even the artistic director on making it commercially. To get the money out of those who put it in. That is, to sell. To please the public.

Relationships are like driving in tandem: you decide where you want to go, trace the route, the signaling rules, and start on the road together, but each with his own car, more or less set up, as each took care of it until then. But you can’t establish all the details from the beginning; you can’t predict everything that’s going to come your way, you can’t know where a crazy driver comes from cutting your way or when a breakdown occurs.

Leave, stay, tell him, don’t tell him, shout, shut up, cry quietly, cry with words, smile sarcastically, slap him, hug him, throw plates, gather shards or step on them, run, hide, come back, come, get drunk, run until it passes, lie down in the middle of the street under the full moon, set fire, put out the fire, let go, don’t let go, tear up the pictures, hold them close to your heart, wet them with tears, swear at them, cut out butterflies, go to bed, wake up… wake up… wake up… but whatever you do, do only the things you know you can forgive yourself for.