Sometimes I think backwards and I try to recall when I stopped withering undeservingly. I head quite far back to find it and I upset myself a tad for the time lost and for loss in general. I do not think specifically. This morning I was skimming again through Remarque’s “Black Obelisk” and I spotted the line which says that we do not miss places or faces, we only miss our own self as it was there and then. On the other hand, I am not exactly sure I miss myself. Not that I miss places or faces, I just have an enormous millstone where the stomach separates from the lungs when I think about “grand things” in their time that are now forever gone. Random things, big or small.
A smurf-y car for example. Or a stand for pancakes on the Westminster Bridge in London. A carousel ride by the Trocadero in Paris. An airport in Alexandroupolis. A wine bar in Beeston. A pastry sweet in Prague. A balcony in Plaka. A French bakery in the Upper West Side. A staircase on Puerta del Sol. A car repair shop in Thessaloniki. A train station clock in Boston. A cartoon sandwich shop in Komotini. A sprayed wall in Berlin. A gelateria and the odd brides up Piazelle Michelangelo in Florence. A mojito in Havana. A purple rainbow bus in Nottingham. All those things that six and a half billion people would be dulled to read and ask for, all those things that, either slower or faster than myself, will pass and be forgotten. All those things that will have changed nothing for anyone else but me. Me that I feel my chest cracking from all these packed things that I have no one to share with and I will have no one to inherit to. All these things that through their eternal insignificance had all the significance in the world but perished before they faded.
I think back and I try to remember when I started to live, even in pieces, and I try to remember when it was that all the things that were disorderly started to intoxicate me. And I read the Black Obelisk again, but really, I don’t miss myself, I miss them. They are many, little and instant, connected to creatures now dead in their change through time, tied to unrepeatable moments. Maybe they were insignificant, I don’t know, but they are lost forever and I remember them. No one else can really grasp them but myself. And that, as such, can be liberating but – sometimes – aches a bit.