Moineau Rouge IV
It’s
a simple idea that man can have the strength to continue on. That a human being
can breathe after living with all of what we can mockingly call, gifts of life. Now staring out into the
dark sky in this empty café it is hard to understand why any person on the
Earth has the strength to get out of bed and give into all of the universes
absurd indifferent demands.
Now
I can open another little door in a memory full of darkness, the little red
droplets dripping down the side. I see the next morning, after that young girl
had died. Antony and Jean walked in, they sat in silence. Marie and Jean nodded
and left to head back to the café. Now it was my… well Mat’s turn to speak, “Look,
Antony, it wasn’t your fault or anything.” Of course maybe he shouldn’t of said
that because Ana glanced icily at him.
She
spoke, “Did you get any sleep brother?” And still silence hung over their
heads, the beautiful soft silence of black clouds, the utter scientific
desolation of a guillotine, dozens with blades ready all sitting over everyone’s
head. Hanging there in wait. The blade begging to fall, but the moment not
right.
Ana
spoke again, “Come on, you need some rest, have a drink and go to sleep. There
is no sense in sulking. It happened. That is all. You can’t change it.” Mat
could see in her eyes something dreadful, like a bargaining with the fates,
outside she was trying to comfort her brother, but inside, she was at war with
a mix of envy and jealousy. She continued, “Listen, if I could take her place,
you can bet I would love to, but it’s not like that. We are all going to die,
and some sooner than others, but it’s part of the deal.”
Feeling
a little smart, Mat spoke, “She escaped from a life full of troubles and pain.
Under her cheery exterior she was already undermined. The girl that died in
that bathroom was already dead. She had given up the struggle a long time ago. What
came outwardly as vapidity was really a genuine resignation. She was dead a
long time ago and just waiting for the body to catch up with the soul.”
Ana’s
brother slugged Mat in the chest than got up and went to his room slamming the
door. Mat tried to speak but sat in silence looking at Ana. It was the kind of
silence that bespoke regret, failure, and a genuine insecurity. It played notes
of discord that formed a bizarre cacophony, like the scratches of devils along
the floor trying to break out of hell. Trying to bring us down to their level.
Not as a punishment, but just so we could understand each other, and speak as
if on a level playing field.
Finally
after what seemed like hours Ana smiled. The kind of smile that washes all
doubt away from a foolish boy. The kind that disarms you, robs you of your
reason, and eventually leaves you half frozen and shattered on the pavement.
Her lips mouthed the words “I love you” but no voice followed, so Mat just
smiled got up and threw his arms around her.
Embracing
in that kitchen, in full juxtaposition with life, death, pain, and love all competing
within each of them. In the brutal servile indifference that leaves us in
constant conflict at the brevity of our lives. The kind of conflict where no
lasting peace can be found. No day can quiet a man’s heart forever. Once opened
up it is hard to close the wounds that our real smallness leaves.
Mat
began to speak, “You don’t really wish you could trade places with the dead
girl do you?”
Ana
didn’t speak, but trying to choke back a few tears kissed Mat once more. Then
in a soft emotional tone she lied to him. She lied gently for the sake of his
heart. Ana told him, “Of course not, I am alive because I still have so much to
do, and even with all the weariness around me, I couldn’t leave you alone, what
would you do with yourself? Sit up with Jean everyday getting drunk until you
both passed out at the tables and Marie took him to bed?”
Mat
tried to smile, he knew she was lying. Like I know today. And now I sit alone
in that immutable café. I sit alone in awkward awareness and painful readiness
for a moment in which I can reclaim for myself a few days peace before letting
my body fade away and expire. And I go on living because I’ve nothing else to
do. No better plan, no greater purpose, I breathe only because air fills my
lungs, not because of a general desire for purpose or meaning. And as the air
fills them and the alcohol fills my stomach I can close my eyes and imagine the
man I was then. And the woman who loved me. I can picture a world where I was a
happy rebel. One in which I stood proudly laughing at the universes
indifference. But I’ve no fight left in me. And the bottle is empty.
Goodnight,
and Regards.
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