road trip

Let’s end this comedy.

I lay on the tracks, watching hope slip away. A twin revival was thrown into my face on a misty afternoon, shaking uncontrollably. He smiled at resistance, showing me the way to the open door with hand gestures. “I’m the inhabitant of the ghost,” I thought, was a brave statement in this variable. The floor was covered with a brown carpet, the vacant windows shut, and magazines from the past were in piles on the table. My eyes caught outside, the trees doing their dance act. It is a strange season that I cannot associate with anything. A path with little stones turned to the right where the trees were. My body on the trail is stiff. It is challenging to keep up with two places. 

Places, places I struggle to remember.

I wish you could stop this damn trembling; I lost myself in a long blue coat with a white t-shirt underneath, taking irrevocable, regular steps in grey track pants and white sports shoes. Alone with the transcendent twin, we walked on a path that led to the right. A couple of cypress trees lined up, connecting the distance with a small white-bricked house. A light was on in the living room, a single swing in a gated garden with tropical trees. I can’t see more or feel anything at all. I had no phone, and he couldn’t be helpful because he was escorting me to the road. His steps were reaching their limit till the end of the pathway. “I need my cigarettes”, I said without looking at his face. His face turned dejected, and he cried: “It’s so lonesome, bare here with the barkings of mad dogs. Look straight at my hands- the young hands of a teenager. That can’t be right! Dark darkness, I need the lights on! Where are the car keys left? Are they inside the pocket with that pie wrapped in a handkerchief?”

I sneaked into the car with him on the wheel. 

To get to the petrol station, we turned left and continued straight until we reached the big road. Then, we took another left and continued straight. The all-night store sells the blue cigarettes he smokes.

“I like to smoke one while watching the guys work on my car. There is nowhere else to go, and I won’t see you ever again,” his whimsical

ways reminded me of the old neighborhood.

“Driving this car for eternity, driving in a loop of driving, I can’t meet you anywhere. You are a voice so far-fetched. 

I can’t go back. 

I came here with you. And NO, no, not back into that house.”

What was my virtue in that scene? Was it a limpid face I carried in an organic totality? The whole and its extended barriers still needed to be reached. It was revealed to me by my conflict with the man I lied to be. My fight was against my self-inflicted coma, the same coma that led me back into the contest. In a sense, my struggle was introduced by my self-destruction as if that urge to fight keeps on giving for eternity.

  I kept the promise to let him stay beside me. We reached the port in the early morning hours. His eyes were drowsy, but he didn’t keep his mouth shut at all. My participation in his chattering was minimal, while he clarified that what was said in the car was the product of a blooming crystal world. His presence lurked like a sweet frolic liquid around me, the excitement boiling in my insides, my eyes catching shy, fragmented glimpses of his expressions, which I kept with anticipation in my belongings. It was essential to keep my mind in the present while taking snapshots for later examination, but it didn’t occur to me that he was staying in my area for good and that there would not be enough time for private contemplation. 

The port was a damp battlefield, foreign. We sat on the bench, the ticket in my hands, because he can’t be trusted. I hesitated to ask his name, as I felt he might be offended. I surrendered by calling him “inhabitant” as he introduced himself. The sun was rising from the other side. I shook my legs, ready to get up. “Where are we heading?” he asked me with a worrying wrinkle on his forehead. “Don’t you recognize anything?” I said, “We are crossing the other side. And don’t ask me why. My mind works on automatic pilot.” And what is “the other side”?” made his question with lips in a perfect stretch.

We have now reached the shore, where bright men in suits were arguing loudly on old benches. One of them, with the white shoes, I knew personally; last summer, he tried to trick me into buying his old farm down the river. Regardless, I suspected he couldn’t recognize me, and I must have changed a lot. “I’m already getting bored,” said “the inhabitant.” I couldn’t help but feel guilty that I hadn’t brought him that far. Just as if I was not trying hard enough to be creative, yet I didn’t apologize to him. While on the road, I wondered several times if he could hear my thoughts aloud, which terrified me. Our heads facing forward, all we saw was snow-white linen hanging from rotten railings and serpentine roads leading to the wilderness and dead silence. 

 As tired travelers, we thoughtlessly decided to sit for coffee in a dimly lit place. The owner was an old guy who looked suspiciously in my direction when we entered and brought our coffees in mismatched cups. I noticed a maroon backpack beside him and asked with a smile, “What do you have in there?”  Ηe proceeded to open it, aggressively took a book, and threw it on the table. I saw blue letters on the white cover that read “The Improvement of Reality” by Sad Volery.

“I read it many times. It’s a good one !” his mannerisms changed quickly, and he became more violent in spirit. “ Let’s go for that walk we discussed on the road,” I replied, and we got up.

We passed through hermetically sealed windows and well-guarded old doors, all on foot. It was a walk that made me feel I was doing it for an eternity, like a locked-up, continuous movement. He dragged his feet as he was forced to walk with me.” is this “the life” as they call it?” He asked me with disapproving eyes. “Yes, my friend, this can be life. While moving through the banality, events intersect so much that it looks like life as a whole day, like this day I’m with you, walking the snake-like road to the top of the hill, “and what if we reach the top? It must be a development waiting for us up there!” He enthusiastically asked me, “The problem lies with our movement, inhabitant.” I tiredly replied,” Our movement is blunt and sore right now and can’t lead us to the top.” He turned his back to the port and signaled for me to follow. Let’s get out of here, shouted. “This is not the right place for us.”