so i'm giving every part of you away

How does it feel?

The rain is pouring outside, raindrops pelting down towards the road and the houses with viciousness. The air is damp and hot from the asphalt cooling off after a long summer day. The shades are drawn to keep the light out, but they can't stop the sound of wind and rain from filling the silence indoors.

The house is clean and tidy, objects neatly set in their place, silent and unmoving. She hovers among them, almost immaterial in her presence, brushing a finger absent-mindedly on their tops, muttering short sentences to herself. Her hair is cut short and uneven, sticking flatly to her head in some places and bursting out at odd angles in others. Her skin is ghostly pale from having been deprived of proper light for a very long time, and her eyes are hidden under a tightly knotted bandana placed just over them, making it impossible for her to see. At first, she looks like a middle-aged woman playing a blindfolded hide and seek game in the house, but the assuredness with which she steps and moves among the furniture and about the room goes against such an idea. It looks as if she has been depriving herself of the ability to see for a very long time, learning in the meantime to do without it, like a blind person would, sharpening her senses continuously.

She moves away from the room and down a long corridor, leading to another part of the house. She goes into the kitchen and feels for the coffee machine on the counter, before taking the pot out and maneuvering it towards the sink, from where she picks up a clean cup. She pours a cup of coffee shakily over the sink, trying her best not to spill, then leaves the pot next to the sink on the counter, making a mental note not to forget about it later on. She goes and sits by the window, cup in her hand, and periodically takes small sips of coffee. Long ago, drinking it with no sugar would have been unbearable, and a concept she could never grasp. But as the years went by, to save time feeling about for a spoon and some sugar, she left her sweetening habit behind.

After a while, her legs get tired from standing and she moves towards a chair, sitting down gratefully, her coffee almost finished. The blindfold prevents her eyes from giving her face and expression, and she seems more like an unfinished statue than anything else, confined to this house as a sort of punishment for not having the courage to face the facts. A few minutes later, she stands up, and makes her way towards the corridor, turning right halfway through and stepping into the bedroom.

The room, compared to the others, is a mess. Clothes lay scattered on the floor in small heaps all around the double bed. The wardrobe doors are wide open, and she stops for a few minutes in front of those, facing the vacant shelves coated with a thick layer of dust. She then stretches out on the bed, letting out a heavy, tired sigh, spreading her arms out like wings and moving them upwards and downwards as if making a snow angel. She remembers the way this room looks from memory, but her memory doesn't differ in many aspects from what it looks like now. The same mess, the same emptiness of the two-person wardrobe, the same leftover feeling, the same forgotten sentiment. She turns on one side and feels the side of the bed that seems less used.

How does it feel?

It feels like you've been left behind at home when your parents left for the holiday. Everything is exactly as if they were there, or returning shortly. But they are not there, nor are they on their way back. I've divided my time between this room and the kitchen and the living room, I've wasted hours lying in this bed or circling the living room or watching out windows and worlds I'm blinded to. I'm consumed between this moment and the next, and the ones after that are forlorn and scattered. I keep the house as it was then, and I imagine it everyday how it was then, so no detail goes to waste. I remember the better days this house has seen, and I with it. I remember his shape on the bed, spooning with me, before the times when anyone or anything could enthusiast him more than I could. The nights spent arguing and the hushed apologies whispered in the dark afterwards, searching for the peace and quiet of before. The weekends out camping under starlight skies, with distant owl hoots as company. The snuggling in the sleeping bag to keep each other warm and safe, the stifled laughter in the stiffening quiet of the forest, the long nights spent next to bonfires telling stories and jokes and promising forevers. How does it feel, then, having to give up your lifetime's best memories, your encyclopedia of happiness once the strongest link in the chain that triggered all emotions and feelings suddenly decides to break free of you? It feels like waking up stranded, all on your own, somewhere remote and lonely where no one will ever help you find your way again. And you don't just feel emptiness, you see it all around you. And if you can't stop yourself from feeling, from remembering, you have to stop yourself from seeing. You have to keep your senses busy with something else. And if he's not here for me to look at, what else is worth the light of day in my eyes anymore? I gave up my eyesight two days after he left. There was nothing to look at, nothing that didn't remind me of him, nothing that didn't tie him to me, nothing that didn't hurt. So, how does it feel? How does it feel not to see anymore? How does it feel to only feel, and even so to feel what no one else should have to feel, ever? It doesn't matter what it feels like. He is not here and, somehow, neither am I. He cannot see, and neither can I. So if I can still feel so much, can he?

"eu ti-am upgradat sarutul, ti-am iubit necunoscutul"

Ce usor, si totodata greu, ar fi ca toti oamenii sa fie oglinzile celor din jur. M-as uita la tine, si m-as vedea pe mine, si nu as stii niciodata cum sunt eu, pentru tine. N-as incerca sa ma vad prin ochii tai, sa vad si eu ce vezi tu, pentru ca nici tu, la randul tau, uitandu-te la mine, nu ai vedea altceva decat reflexia ta. Cum ar fi, sa nu aflii ce cred ceilalti, sa nu fii nevoit sa speri sa ajungi la fel de bun ca celalalt "tu", ca acea persoana care in mod bizar esti in totalitate tu, dar cu care nu semeni in nici un fel, pentru ca esti un "tu" al celuilalt? Sa nu trebuiasca sa te schimbi niciodata, pentru ca nimeni nu te vede, iar tu te vezi tot timpul la fel.

Am putea trai asa? Am putea trai fara sa stim niciodata nimic altceva despre noi decat ceea ce credem deja? Cine am fi atunci, pentru cei ce conteaza pentru noi? Cum am stii cine conteaza, daca nu am putea niciodata sa-i vedem? Cum as afla tot ceea ce stiu despre tine, tot ceea ce iubesc la tine, toate acele parti din tine care sunt doar ale mele? Cum as putea sa te iubesc, daca uitandu-ma la tine, m-as vedea pe mine?

Si poate totusi atunci ar fi mai putina ipocrizie. Poate daca nu ne va mai cunoaste nimeni, vom putea sa fim in totalitate noi; fara sa ne prefacem, fara sa fie nevoie sa fim pe placul nimanui. Si totusi, cum ne-am prezenta celorlalti? Cine am fii in ochii nostri, cum am putea sa transpunem imaginea asta in ochii cuiva care nu a vazut niciodata nimic altceva decat cum este el? Oare am mai avea aceleasi pareri despre noi insine daca am stii ca nimeni altcineva nu ne-ar putea vedea? Sau am fi tentati sa inventam o noua persoana, sa ne prefacem ca noi suntem acea persoana, pentru ca nimeni nu ar putea sa ne contrazica vreodata?

Am putea sa fim oglinzi? Oare noi, ca oameni, nu traim prea mult din reflexiile celorlati asupra noastra, nu avem prea multa nevoie sa ni se spuna cine suntem? Nu avem noi, totusi, o dorinta netarmuita sa cunoastem mai departe decat propria persoana? Am avea noi atata incredere incat sa ne consolam cu ceea ce ne spun ceilalti ca sunt? N-am vrea sa vedem? Nu ne-am simti, intr-o oarecare masura, limitati, inchisi intr-o lume in care nimic altceva nu mai exista, in care nici macar pareri in afara persoanei noastre nu putem avea?

Am fi, poate, noi cu totul. Noi fara parerea nimanui altcuiva. Dar atunci, cine exact am fi noi?

"because there in the sand of our shore, lies your fear"

The walls are the emptiest shade of grey, worn out by years of neglect, pinned against the canopy of her imagination by her enduring stares. The cracks and chips in the paint remind her of arteries and blood vessels, veins crisscrossing, as if part of a pounding human heart. The light plays softly on the uneven surface, highlighting certain features and irregularities, blending the sun into the dusty colour.

The window is wide open, letting in the summer air, filtered through the moldy curtains. The noise coming from outside fills the room, making it seem alive despite there being no sense of inhabitance. There is a slight breeze that moves the curtains, letting off the smell of age and solitude.

She stands by the window, motionless, surrounded by the invisible walls that growing old and lonely build around you. Her face is drawn, her skin taut against her bones, making her seem thinner than she really is. Thin lines creep at the edges of her eyes, a dark shade of coffee bean brown, and at the edges of her small mouth. Her hair is piled up in a tight bun, with just a strand or two of hair falling loosely on the sides of her face. Her skin is a pale white, with rosy hued cheeks and a wax-like quality to it. Her clothes clearly belong to the opposite sex-- a white, short-sleeved man's shirt, baggy and frayed around the collar and the hem, stained with either coffee or tea on the front, and dirty around the cuffs from having been worn too much; black men's trousers, far too large around the waist, barely held in place by a belt, rolled up several times to brush the ankles; grey socks, patched in a number of places, yet still with holes in them, exposing the heel and several fingers on both legs.

All over her arms and hands is written, over and over again, a date: 22nd of May. The same date appears around the house, embedded in different items: in the windowsill, next to a spot where the paint is burnt, the product of endless cigarette stubs having been put out; in the wooden table; it appears written on the front page of every single book, on scraps of paper all over the house, on bubble gum wrappers under the table and tissues scattered on the floor. It seems as if all the items in the house are linked to this common theme: time.

Yet the oddest thing yet is set neatly on all the walls, giving the place an eerie sense of having gotten lost in the flow of minutes, hours, days, months, years. Every bit of available space on the wall opposite the window is occupied by clocks of all shapes and sizes and colours, none of which works. They're all frozen at different moments in time, giving no real clue as to what the time is, in truth. She doesn't seem to be bothered by this; occasionally, she turns her head towards them, as if checking what time it is, then moves her gaze onto the door, as if she's expecting someone to walk right in any moment now. Her gaze is fixed, but lacking in dimension: heavily wrapped in her own perceptions, it seems that to her time is measured in the passing of cars on the street outside.

She looks all of a sudden ageless and aged at the same time; her skin places her somewhere in her late thirties, maybe early forties, while her eyes and her glossy expressionless features make her seem a creature set at the boundaries of time and space, capable of feeling their dimension but incapable of being affected by them. Her sadness seems to stand out, like a faithful shadow by her side, pushing her beyond the reality she seems to be part of.

Suddenly there's a soft noise, like a rustling of feathers as a bird settles to sleep, or like a faint heartbeat of a broken heart, bruised by loss. The smell of sickliness and dust covers the room like a warm blanket, probably the only clue as to how many years have really passed. Her gaze is fixed on the door, the sound humming gently in the background, like a far-off tune in a dream. And all of a sudden her face lights up into a beautiful smile, youthful and full of expectation, of wishes granted. Slowly, he walks towards her, arms outstretched to gather her into a warm embrace. His hair is coffee bean brown, just like her eyes, his skin is the colour of caramelized sugar, his arms are protective and secure as they take her frail form and rock it against his chest, his eyes are the pale green shade of late May.

They stand like that, locked together, his return worth every seemingly wasted second, as the clocks start their tick-tock noise in unison, the hands turning anti-clockwise, trying to find the lost thread where they left off, before having stopped.