It has always fascinated me how loneliness has nothing to do with being alone. You can be in the most crowded places and still feel like you’re the only human there. You can stand in the middle of Times Square, a thousand people rushing by, billboards calling your attention in every second and still feel the empty echo of nothingsness inside. At least that’s how I am feeling standing here right now. Looking up at some ad of Calvin Klein. What did I think coming to New York would do? Cure me? Inspire me? I am a shell of myself. If our identity is our internal house, mine had surely crumbled to ruins. No job, as of yesterday no relationship or home and family - well… I guess the foundation of my house had always been shaky. So here I am. Checked in to the cheapest hotel I could find and still not afford. Walking down these busy streets, looking for something. Maybe for pieces of remembrance of who I used to be before it all took a downhill. MOMA, my mind suddenly thought. Maybe I should head to the museum of modern art. The greek hall had always comforted me in some way with it’s tall ceiling. The light coming in through the roof bringing the pituresque statues to life. I could throw a coin into the fountain. I’ve never been supersticious but oh man could I need some luck right now.
I walk up 7th avenue and take a right, as my eyes cross a little sign on the sidewalk. “Feeling lost? Ready to be found?” It reads. Ugh, I thought, not one of those religious interventions again. So far I had successfully avoided these encounters in my 28 years of life. I don’t know what struck me but I paused a little too long. Well if I was completely honest, I was lost. And yes, I wanted to be found. Anything was better then where I was right now. What harm could it possibly do? Maybe they’ll even have some coffee and biscuits. Some company. I started walking into the direction of the sign. It led around the corner to a big black door. In big letters it said again “Feeling lost? Ready to be found?” As I was now more up close to the sign I realised I couldn’t see any reference to a church or organisation. There was only one more line below the big capital letters, written in a font so tiny you had to get really close to read it. “Museum of Truth. Only enter if you are ready to meet yourself”.
Meet myself?! What was that supposed to mean?! The door seemed a little dodgy in this side alley, but I couldn’t deny my curiosity. What was the worst that could happen? What else could I have to loose? With a shrug I opened to door and entered the corridor. It was dark but warmly lit. Carefully I started heading down.
“Mam” I suddenly here behind me. I turn around. A man pokes his head out of a window in the wall I must have walked right past. “Are you here for the museum of truth, mam?” He says with a polite, firm manner. “I.. I guess so” I reply a little unsure. “Great, that will be 2$ please. You can spend 10 minutes inside. If you want to go again, that will be another 2$. Do you have cash?”
I only now register that he is standing in a little booth behind the wall. “Sure”, I snap out of my freeze and walk back over to him. “Here you go”, I smile warmly and hand him two one dollar notes. “You are lucky, mam. It’s a slow day today, there is no queue. The museum is all yours.” He smirks at me. “Just follow the corridor and the doors will open for you. “Thanks”, I reply, quite surprised that this seems to actually be a museum and not some awkward holy circle. I look at my phone. Only one of four bars show up in the top corner. The connection doesn’t seem to be the best in here. But who would I want to connect to anyways. I toss it back into the pocket of my jacket. I give him one last polite smile as I excuse myself and head on down the dimly lit hall. I can see the door now. Also black, around the sides touched by the same warm, orangy light.
“Are you ready for the truth?” It says in big capital letters above. I shrug a little. Was this some kind quiz game or escape room. I had gone to one two years ago, I think, with… okay, no, I won’t let my mind go there. Presence. Here. Now. New York City. Awkward museum on the side of the road. Oh heck, in the end I’ll at least have a good story to tell. I step closer and the automatic door opens.
I feel almost blind as the room appears infront of me. It’s completely white. I can’t tell where the light is coming from but it feels as if the walls are glowing. “Are you ready to meet yourself?” It says in big letters, this time printed on the floor. I still have no idea what that is supposed to mean. But I curiously step further into the room. In the middle appears a single white wall. Maybe 2x2m. Just a wall. Nothing else. Again big black letters grace the space. “If you are ready, slowing walk around the wall and face yourself.” I look uncomfortably to my left and right but I am completely on my own. No cameras visible. No sounds. Just me and the wall. Well, you are here now, I think to myself, as I slowly start walking towards and past the wall. The other side looks similar. Only different letters. “Stand here” it says with an arrow pointing toward the ground. A big circle is marked on the ground. Usually any scenario like this would have already made me run for the hills. Call it desperate curiosity or resignation, but I truly no longer care much about what will happen to me. Can’t be worse than what I’ve done myself, can it?!
I step into the circle. My eyes are glued to the wall as it suddenly starts changing its surface. It looks as if the wallpaper is melting into a silvery liquid lake. Slowing the surface becomes clearer and clearer until I… a lump builds up in my throat and tears start springing to my eyes. I… The wall has slowly transformed into a mirror of some sort. But not your ordinary mirror. My heart feels as if it’s been clicked into a thousand volt line. I am indeed…facing myself.
A blackbird. Flick. A branch of a cedar reaching into the lake. Flick. Circles on the water surface. Flick. It’s dark in the room. All you can here is the buzzing of the projector. The air has the familiar smell of chemicals dancing through the room. I am tired. It’s been a long day in a long year. I spent the afternoon by the lake, our lake. Taking pictures of things you would like. The sun peaking through the grass. Flick. An older couple walking in distance holding hands. Fli - I flip back and stare a little longer at their silhouettes. A little sting shoots into my heart. I want to push it away, move to the next shot but somehow I can’t, my eyes stay glued. When you haven’t felt anything for a long time, you long for any sensation, even pain. Anything that reminds you that you are alive. The shot was taken from distance. The couple walking on the other side of the lake. Her in a red coat, him holding a stick. I remember seeing them. Not thinking much. When I photograph I get into this zone where the camera always moves without me doing anything. I often sit here later in the dark developing room seeing what I captured. As if I am more my own audience than creator. Enough. Flick. I captured more of them, I see now, using the full capacity of my zoom lense. I don’t recall taking more shots, but here they are. The couple slowly comes closer and closer with every shot. More details. More angles. My eyes scan the images as disbelief starts crossing my face. I must be dreaming. Red coat. It’s your coat. I would remember the pattern of green stripes in a million people walking by. Same long curly hair, not brown though, now grey. In one shot the woman is laughing, a dimple appears on her left cheek just like it used to on yours. Now the man appears behind her. I can’t believe my eyes. Tall, grey short hair, hager face, green eyes. My eyes. This… is… impossible. I turn of the projector with a abrupt motion and the darkness consumes every specle of light. How is this possible. The couple looks just like us but 50 years older. They say everyone processes grief differently. Maybe my choice of therapy had become insanity. I flip the projector on again. The couple is still there unchanged, laughing at each other. Undisputably you and I. Maybe I was truly going insane or maybe, maybe there was a version of this life where we survived. Maybe there was more to reality than I could capture with my own eyes.
What would I give to stand on the other side.
One finger that’s how it started You said one and they would survive What can a father do When all options have been taken from you
No fingers left now But at least they are fed My left leg gave us enough For the hard winter months
Now summer’s approaching And I don’t know how to give more But now the cycle never ends After every step a new threat
I hope one day they will look back No embarassed by the imbecile I’ve become I bled out of love They are too young to understand that
One day they might As long as they are free There is not a single regret my heart beats For out of my flesh they were made How could I not give my flesh to keep them safe
What a harsh world this has become May their little bodies stay untarnished By the cruelness of man
Paranoia is a feeling hard to describe. Like a shadow constantly following you. Like an echo you hear in people’s voices, steeped with bad intent. Like a deep breath you took that stopped mid air. Paranoid… that’s what they labelled me. And by now I believe. Maybe all along it was my mind playing tricks on me. So I take the pills and life has gotten better. I have a job now. I work at the fruit stand at the market. I hand people their apples without a voice in my head questioning their words. I collect the coins and wish them a good day without my eyes following them. It’s good. This is what peace must feel like. I even met you. Tall, handsome, kind. I don’t know how you do it, but with you I feel safe. I’ve never felt safe with anyone.
“Mari?” I pick up my phone. It’s you, but your voice sounds different. You sound…panicked. “Mari, are you there?” Usually you speak calmly to me, because you know how much I need it. I jump out of my train of thoughts “Yes, yes, yes, of course I am! Are you okay?” “Oh thank God”, you breathe heavily into the phone. “Okay, I know this will sound very, very weird but I need your help and you cannot ask any further questions, okay?” I am trying to process what he is saying. “I need to borrow the $4000 your mother inherited you.” He sounds as if he is not alone. “Only for a short while. I will give it back to you in no time.” Why is he speaking so fast? It feels as if his words only start reaching me now. He wants what? The money my mother inherited me? “You don’t need it right now anyways, don’t you? Do you think you could lend it to me?” His voice becomes fragile and weak at the end of that question. I stare into the air. I don’t know what to say. I try to swallow but there is a massive lump in my throat.
I shouldn’t trust..I shouldn’t trust….this is so… wrong?! So off?! Isn’t it? But… but he’s my safe person. I made a list with my therapist and he is my safe person, my mind repeats. “Mari?! I know this must seem so weird, but I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t needed.” He sounds more insisting now, tinted with an impatience I’ve never heard before.
Does his voice sound deeper than it usually does?? Is this even him? No, no, not these ideas again. We don’t do that anymore Mari, remember? I’m trying to process a million thoughts at the same time. But what if it is him and he needs me. He’s in a bad situation and something has happened to him. Oh my God, nothing can happen to him. Not him, he’s my safe person. My breath has become faster. No further questions he said. He needs me. “What, what do you need me to do?” I stutter into the phone. “Go to the bank, get the money, put it in an envelope and leave it at the bench on the other side of the road. Be there in half an hour, just drop it and leave. I will give it back to you in no time, I promise” I become very quiet. I don’t know what to do, everything within me is telling me to not trust, to not believe, to stop whatever this is… but he’s my safe person, right?! He’s just stressed. His voice sounds different when he’s stressed.
“Okay, I will be there 30 minutes.”, I say back into the phone almost robotic. “Thanks Mari I will explain it all to you later. I promise.” Beep, beep, beep… the phone line goes dead. $4000. He needs my $4000. My mother’s money. I am still trying to process what just happened. For all I know he is a normal, decent man. Works as a substitute teacher, good with kids, good with people, orderly. We’ve been dating for what is it…three months now? I never thought I would ever date again after all that happened. I never thought I could trust again after all that happened. I need to learn trust again, that’s what they told me, right?! This world is not against me. I close my eyes for a moment, I take a deep breath. Remember Mari, this world is not against you, I repeat mentally. I need to trust again. Everything within me tells me something is wrong, but I need to trust again…right? He is my safe person.
I love you and it hurts
I trust you and every time I get burned
I help you, praying now things finally turn only to find out hell has depths of no return
I break for you thinking it will make you see your own flaws you ignore so willingly
but in the end
br o k e n
it leaves only
me
no sign of awareness in your eyes love masked cleverly as a kind disguise only to pressure me back into your light
where every truth I speak will be taken on as critique and once again there’s no air to breathe
I love you but I need to break free
when does a man become a monster?
Lies make you look bold Until they are told Underneath the mask Hides empty land
Exposed the truth Now look at you But entering your desert Proved deadly for me too
Underestimated the dire heat You masked cleverly your defeat Now I stand here with an empty hand Burnt in your red sand
But don’t be fooled I was not made for the easy route Even if I am still yelling into the vast land I assure someday soon it will all end
Gatagammas (γάτα ˈɡæməs) belong to the family of feline. Known by their dangerous three tails, they are often found roaming abandoned houses and sheds looking for the next mammal to strangle to death. Where as the traditional house cat is limited to small rodents, the gatagammas exhibit a tenfold power being able to tackle victims trice their size. Often they can be seen balancing on their tails to jump higher up into trees, only to fall down onto their prey. In the dark they can be recognized by their bright orange eyes. Meeting a gatagamma will often be deadly.
„Once you taste freedom you never go back“ it blasted out of the speakers in the corner of the little petrol station. A man in cowboy clothes and beard was gracing the screen of the TV Box, taking a deep inhale from his cigarette while looking accomplished into the distance. I rolled my eyes. Not so sure if at him or at the past version of myself who would have believed in the absolute truth of that statement. That once you leave the squaremetres of your own comfort zone, jump the fence of all you know and make it to the other side, you‘ve broken free. There would be nothing that could hold you back any longer. You just had to make it to the other side and then life could only go up. Freedom…
Well the 20 squaremetre box of petrol station I was currently standing in tasted nothing like freedom. Old. Familiar. Small. Limiting. How did I end up here again? I questioned myself as I ran a snickers bar past the beeper and charged the customer 0,96$. Customer…as if it‘s some stranger and not Vinnie, the janitor of my high school, now retired. Mostly at the pub every day from noon till midnight, when he comes in to buy his snack of the night. We exchange an awkward nod like we always do and he slowly drags his body out of the door again. I put the coins into the cash register and get a glance of my reflection as the computer screen lights up.
People always talk about taking the big risks, making the moves, going for your dreams. They rarely talk about what happens if you do and fail. When you break free only to realise that the shackles of your past will drag you right back to where you started. And right back for me meant Henderson, Wyoming. 2000 inhabitants. 4000 cows. One petrol station. Said petrol station I was standing in.
I don’t look much into the mirror at the moment. Maybe it‘s because shame hasn‘t left my eyes yet, or disappointment is still gravitating the corners of my smile down. Maybe because I look empty and tired. Different to how I used to. My mind flashes back…
New Years Eve 3 years ago. I am wearing a full face of makeup, fake lashes and a pink wig. Looking straight into my eyes in the mirror. The view makes me laugh at myself the way you only do when you hit that perfect level of alcohol to blood ratio where intoxication turns in to infatuation. „You did it“ I whisper to myself, beaming with pride. „We are in NYC. You made it. You really made it out.“
I close my eyes, as a beam of headache rushes through my head. My hands grasp the corner of the register‘s counter viciously till my knuckles turn white. No, no, no, no… this can‘t be it. This can’t be where my story ends. It feels as if for the first time the full reality of my situation is sinking in. Henderson, Wyoming. I panickly look around the room for traces of myself, but I can’t find anything that gives me a sense of security. That feels like me. Suddenly the smell of petrol and tabacco in the air makes me sick. My heart is starting to beat so fast, I feel like I am about to burst. I dont think twice before pushing myself around the corner and storming out of the door into night. I don‘t know what is happening, but it feels like the blood in my veins is rushing at full speed. My breath is panting heavily as I start running into the dark. Off the grounds of the petrol station and onto the only main road that crosses our town. It‘s not like running will get me anywhere, but with every metre that passes I feel parts of myself coming back to life.
When you loose something physically you can try to look in all the places you last used it. Try to stitch your memory back together till maybe you remember. But what if the thing you lost is not a necklace or a key but you. Your identity. Your dreams. I had been so long gone now, I couldn‘t even remember the last time I had seen myself in the lost and found department of my own mind. So I kept running. Not because it got me anywhere but because I was so tired of not moving on. But maybe in order to move on I had to move back. Go back to the first moment I started to loose myself and stitch it back together. Go back to that coffee shop on the corner of the 53rd avenue, back to… Andrew. My face pulled itself apart at the thought. I had vowed to not think a single second about anything that had happened in New York. But what was the alternative. If I couldnt go back physically at least I could in memory. And maybe somehow I would start to see where is all went wrong. And what I had to change in order to find myself once again.