The human acheivement

5. March 2015 af Maria Guldager

What we tend to care more about than whether someone speaks the truth is if someone, truthful or not, invades our personal space. Don’t go there.

My pockets are like my hearing: huge, able to contain so many silly or important inputs and yet always too full to be used properly, to be used for its actual purpose; things will fall out of my decadent pockets, when I reach down to grab what I need, as will I hear, but not be able to apply what I’ve heard in the moment of truth. What truth? Whose truth? Where is it? It was right in front of me, someone must have moved it, or moved me around.

I wish I could remember my regrets. I had so many. What were they about? They made me shiver of shame instead of sleeping, but regardless of their flaws, I kept thinking of them, they belonged to me and I to them. With the weight of his hand on my thigh I try to dwell back into the pocket of regret, but the only regret I can find, is ever leaving the regret. He was my first love, I made him my only true path. We should have stuck together. Like people said.  The same people who said we never should have become one with each other. We are still one, we can’t just un-one us, but we have forgotten our content, and a regret without content is though not to be undermined in terms of actuality, not a safe place for the children of your originate hope to revisit. The streets, the residence, the motions, the air, the animals and the ways of all will not welcome ambition. Not even the rarest of tolerance in the offspring, can appreciate how to sink into infinite reflection. It would only cause them to loose their bearings and start hoping for something, I’ve already hoped for once and for all. The regret is fictitious, they say, and for me to go: ‘oh but I assure it is not’, does not change the fact that my traumas are not real to them, and out of respect (and admittedly with the help of having forgot how to) I don’t take them there, they would drop like flies on the streets that leads to nowhere, for grated upon various principles of time they are not in place, as am I without regret, not in place. It’s when you figure out the truth about someone and find, that you have no love for such truth, that you have to become deaf. All you are, is an unable imagination. A contradiction. A wish you never had. The regret of the regret.

The bridge that covers the gap from my fear of entering adulthood and my plans to change the world, is the job. The job is the mild way of approaching mortality, boredom and sacrifice. It will socialise you into it, without you knowing who is up and who is down; here you feel a sense of relief, you’ve made it, you are one of the many in stead of being the one the many, do not know about and through that relaxed position of well-being, you will grow old, responsible and even systematic.

Will I walk the bridge then? Or swim around in the gap until someone pulls me up? Will I retain the memory of what I ought to have been?

I lay my head at your chest and with my hands striking your neck, I find that you are everything I should have said, the words I should have applied, you are my idea of a man, truth, you are the forgetful shower I need, and for that reason alone, I love you knowing that this love is all about me, knowing I can’t access any other kind of love, consciously I dream of the day where my love is not attached to myself, yet sent out deliberately from me towards someone else. I am so changed after a night of sleep, if I sleep long enough, the core of me might be warm enough to achieve love without being in love- the being in love condition covers my bare skin in winter and makes my naked feet bounce through the summer- and having such selfless love equal to my desires, that would indeed change what fills my days. (What are you but a handful of dust? My feelings are not stern, neither are you, for you fade as I turn away.)

So many times had my grandmother warned me about the sweeping staircase. As I came down from the children’s room, I always held the banister tightly, as I slowly dared one step at the time. Except that one time when I had decided to give them everybody a chock, or at least everybody in the living room, who counted grandparents, parents and the occasional brothers and cousins. Did they even realise I could die? Did they rest in assurance of my lifespan exceeding theirs, just because I was the youngest? They ought to know better, ought to see that my life, was being held hostage, that I belonged somewhere far away from them. So I let myself fall. Not too fast, just enough to make some noise, get a bruise or two. After the fall things were supposed to happen. Someone important was supposed to realise my mortality and opened the window for me, I would have flown away true to my spirit. Unfortunately no one heard my fall. All that effort and no reward. As I lay there, made cold by the wooden stairs, the loneliness stirred something else up inside of me, a resemblance of no one in particular, time stalled, I tried to resolve what I was so far, a fallen one crying out in tones barely audible as did my inner truth not allow this outward sketch. With eyes closed I searched and came back to my inadequateness to convey my experiences, few as they were in numbers, they still urged me to face the world, talk to it, with whatever humble dialect. In the living room filled with adults and white noise, I still couldn’t find a way to say, that what I was saying was not the truth, that the truth about what happened on the stairs was underneath me, floating unattainable as fog, as a comprise working for somebody else’s benefit. A thousand pretend-fall later I stood up, speculating whether my twenties would be any different then my tens; I still try to make the influential people listen, not to the message of my injury or sinful outbursts, but to the laughable framework or that, which makes us act the way we do: the fear inside ourselves.

They sense my attempts. My shortcomings are sensations that feels like face slaps, as when someone eats too much and throws everything up and unable to care for myself I ask them to take, what is left of me. Just take it. Take me with the shame, that makes me small enough to fit a tiny pocket but too heavy for the human shoulders. “With everything”, I long, but only what is left of me, can follow.

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