early morning sounds of traffic beam outside as we lay on a huge bed after a night of reading books out loud to each others. I rest my head on the tanned stomach of an old friend, reading poems by dorothy parker. my slow and rusty voice vibrates to my chest, to my cheeks,
if I abstain from fun and such, I'll probably amount to much
but I shall stay the way I am, because I do not give a damn
an ambulance helicopter flies over the building, making the huge bay windows tremble. I feel weak and left behind by the world outside, and do not know where does the capacity of my mind to know in advance come from. seeing the future is the wrong way to put it, for seeing is active. what I experience is a passive, uncontrollable sense of remembering something not yet happened, as if everything meaningful enough to define time could overcome it and show its effects beyond it.
tonight I remembered how, in an apartment with tall purple walls, I woke up late one afternoon to fall from my bed onto a wool carpet on the floor. it was spring time, two years ago, and the friend now pondering on the words of dorothy was living with me, playing the role of a lover in my dreamlike den.
I laid naked and nearly catatonic on the chocolate brown carpet for a long time, shocked by the dream I'd had. for the past winter months I had taught myself to believe, to know, that the relationship I was in was the one, the one that would last from those confused times until we were both wrinkly or dead. the reason for my stance was the uniqueness of the love I felt. I could not imagine myself to love anyone else, nor could I imagine anyone else to understand, accept and love my bipolar being. that is why I was bewildered to wake up bearing love for a mysterious figure from a dream.
in the dream I was in a boundless world and for no reason at all went into a crowded pharmacy. from behind a small counter I found a blond man, who I immediately knew myself to love. I can't remember the conversations we had when he accompanied me outside into the boundlessness where I got to know that after just two years we would meet in real life.
I crawled on the carpet to face my mirror leaning onto the purple wall, and looked at myself for a long time, as if trying to look for answers. when I told the dream to him who lays here with me earlier tonight, he said,
“oh girl. what would you ever need from a drugstore? did you meet somebody last spring who worked behind a counter that really serves your needs? don't answer me, because I know you did.”
I have known for a long time that the only people who understand the depths and the heights of my mind are the kind who have a similar spectrum of perspectives on life. yesterday, when walking in a park, I was talking on the phone with my father when I fell to the grass and cried silently for no reason I could recognize, but I guess he did. now, from the sounds of morning traffic underneath my window, I know without looking it to be the horn of his motorcycle that calls me out for a ride.
there are no words to use to describe a sense of life based on something so complicated and profound as to drive one regularly near madness. those without experience of such varieties tend to feel but resentment towards us, and I bet they have no idea of the tranquility and sheer peace we feel when cruising through the city. the center of helsinki is surrounded by islands with beautiful housing areas, and as we drive for tens of kilometers with only crossing the city's borders to drive through tapanila I feel my chronic escapism relieved.
moving through scenes of life while sitting comfortably on a bike I am taken out of all the contexts driving me slowly insane in their arbitrariness. I could not be more happy than I am to have come from a person who on some unconscious level knows the quality of our shared lunacy and how it can be relieved, even if just for a moment. our way is the highway.