ficus no. 1

"Really, I cannot see this goddamn bleak, puffy face of yours anymore."


There are days when an overall asshole vibe takes over the world, as if my mindset wasn't fragile enough already, and makes me either walk around aimlessly, just away from everyone, or stick to my bed like a mosquito to a flypaper strip. These aren't cosy days in bed, these are silent battles. It's like having a panic attack in complete silence and inertia.


I walked down a road, watching the sunset rather than where I go. I felt like The Gnossienne No. 1 kept breaking my bones, one by one as I listened, and I couldn't understand why. I kept playing it until I became a factotum made from splinters of myself. The sun had disappeared above the rooftops. I thought I was seeping through the asphalt.

"Are you going to pull yourself together or not?" He was looking splendid, she looked like a half drowned sewer rat. The setting was a small bathroom with a yellow sink and a neat little ficus in patterned pot next to it. He mustered her briefly and heaved a long sigh, ran a hand through his jet black hair. "I guess that's a no." Tears were streaming down her face. "What do you want to do? Kill yourself?" She shook her head, still crying noisily. "Ok, do you want to address your goddamn problems, or whatever there is that stops you from functioning, and act?" There was a pause filled with occasional sniffling and other very pitiful noises, then she shook her head again. The look on his face could well be described as weary. "What do you want then? Wallow in self-pity forever?" She started sobbing. He sighed again. "Ok, crying until dehydration it is." She leaned her face against his white shirt and continued her muffled sobs. He leaned against the sink and crossed his legs with his hands in his pockets, staring ahead. "I don't want to do anything," she wailed after an endless six minutes. "I just don't. I don't know how to do things. I don't know how to be profoundly happy. Nothing seems worth doing it, working for it. I dream big, but dreaming is all that ever happens, I have no clue how to get anywhere near those dreams. I don't want to. No matter how colourful and bright and massive they are, I can't bring myself to see how they're worth all the long way there. I don't know what to do. I just don't know what to do." Then her face was pressed against his collar again and he looked down on his jeans, feeling like a premonition of quicksand. "There are no reasons to keep going," he said. "There is only a reason not to pause. Going out of the way of madness is just easier when you're friends with pipe dreams."


  1. You take emotion and press it into words, like a flower in a book, and it doesn't lose any of its sting, or colour. You take aesthetic and make it into text, and I can _feel_ the ache in my own chest from crying about the futility of this world, and the grind of the resulting headache. You must have experience; I figuratively salute you.

    On the other hand, how can anyone with a brain not cry about the world

    how can anyone not cry

    I liked this, even though it stabbed me multiple times and turned me green with envy for your writing skills; more would be a very good idea.


    1. i don't think you should be envious, your remarks are always poetic enough to compete with my posts. thank you! i don't know if and in what way 'more' could happen ([{...see text above...}]) but i'd really love to.

    2. Thanks very much; I do try. Or rather, I feel like I can fake it; I don't think it's me because I don't talk like it, so it doesn't feel very real, but I don't think I'm copying from anyone so it must be a part of me. Maybe there's no real me in the first place and I solely consist of small fakes that are haphazardly glued together (now, I admit I have good ideas but it's the explaining and writing of them that's hard).

      I don't know, some people can force themselves to write and it ends up fine or even better than usual, but you do you, and please show us if it does happen?



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