Riverdrops

Some songs exerts a strange power over me. There's one particular song that makes me cry inconsolably: 'Hope there's someone'.

I can't explain the feelings it causes inside me. Something related to my meaningless existence, the absolute despair, the solitude. The years passing by and the bare hands. The dark empty horizons. A vain past, a difficult present, a hopeless future. Nothing. I feel the nothing inside.

One man said the only thing that really transcends our existence is what we leave here behind for the others. What am I leaving behind? What have I done for the others?

Today's one of those days. I haven't seen a single face yet. I don't feel really sociable today.

I like the sound of rain. I like seeing the lightnings. Counting the seconds between lightning and thunder. I like hearing the thunders.

I like summer storms. So noisy, so powerful, so warm.

I close my eyes and I see myself years ago. I see the storms of my childhood's summers. I don't know why, but in my mind, summer storms are strongly related to an specific place. There's no other place like that in the whole world. I've been in many houses, I've spent a lot of time in many places. But there's a house which I especially love. My grandfather had a little villa, close to the coast. My summer memories are always linked to that house, to the well on the back terrace, to the vine arbor which doesn't exist any more. I remember the nights having dinner on the terrace, listening to the radio, sitting under the starry sky.

And suddenly, the storm. Warm water falling impetuously from the black clouds. Leaving in the air that particular smell of wet earth. I remember the gas lanterns, the night walks after the rain.

It's raining. I like the sound of rain. I have no dinner on the terrace under the stars, I haven't got that smell in the air. I haven't got the night walks, the lanterns, my grandfather's stories. But I close my eyes, and I listen to the rain. The rain is the same. The sound is the same. My summer storms come back every year.

Routine and change.

The company where I'm working is going through serious problems. Redundancy again? I don't know, but it's being rumoured. Lately I'm a bit scared because in my department the work has dramatically decreased. How long is this going to last?

What would happen if I lost my job? I've been thinking of it during the last weeks. I wouldn't have been worried if it happened some years ago, but now... well, you all know the difficulty of getting a job right now.

Anyway, I'd have an unemployment benefit at the beginning, so the situation wouldn't be extremely serious. That is not what worries me.

Why am I worried now? Changing my job would surely entail a change of routine. I've got used to a routine in the last months. I like my routine. It's comfortable and easy, and I've learnt to love it. Maybe because my routine (and my life) in the last two years was a complete disaster, I've got used to this new one so easily and I've clung to it this way. I'm afraid of a change. I don't want to change something that is working well. At least, it is working well for me.

I guess I'm growing old and becoming a bit more intolerant to changes. Or maybe I'm afraid of losing what I've got.

Riverdrops

Tuesday morning. Working. The radio is on. A vulgar radio station with vulgar music. Some of those ballads that people in my country seem to like so much. I say something about it. A workmate says I'm not romantic.

I'm not romantic! She said that because she knows I like rock, and punk, and that I don't like that kind of songs that only say "I love you and I miss you so much", you know what I mean. And she also knows that I don't specially like romantic films. In fact, there are many famous love films that I've never seen and I'm not going to see.

But, I told her, it doesn't mean I'm not romantic. And it doesn't mean I don't like many other musical genres. And I like love songs and ballads, of course, if they are good.

That way, we started talking about music. And I found myself talking about a singer-songwriter quite well-known in my country, whose music is very quiet, and soft, and his lyrics are so special...

Some hours later, I knew he was dead. He died that morning. He was too young to die. I was so sad. He's the one. One of my favourites. My nickname and the name of my blog come from him, from one of his songs.

I would like to try to translate it into English. I know it's going to lose all the magic it's got. And of course, there is no music here. But I can tell you the music is relaxing, calm and sad. At least it is for me.

This is the song. Hope there aren't too many mistakes:

Dark night, keep me from fear
because between seas, water of river I am.
Labyrinth that confuses the understanding
of the one who carries mud and sand in his heart.

Soft breeze, keep me from the cyclone
because between winds, stem of spike I am.
White Moon, white is my devotion,
in your eyes I wanted to look at myself.

Woe is me! Woe is my ambition!

And there I remained sitting next to the path
while the water of the river was splashing me.
Thousands of dreams, just like mine,
Thousands of drops of water of river.

Woe is me! Woe is my ambition!

Freezing clean clear water,
take me to the sea.
Freezing water, in other waters
I wanted to find myself.

And there I remained sitting next to the path
my life, muddy like the water of the river.
So many memories, just like mine,
bathed by those river drops.

And that way, I fell asleep next to the path...
while the muddy water of the river was passing by...
And that way, I fell asleep next to the path...
while the water of the river was muddy passing by...
Thousands of dreams, just like mine...

But today's not Monday, and sadness doesn't scare me...

These words (in another language) came up from my car's radio. The song sounded sad and melancholic. I had never heard that song. I think I had never heard that voice. A man's voice, probably a young boy, was singing those words with such a sorrow in his intonation that it really touched something inside me.

In that precise moment, I was driving through the street where my ex-boyfriend has a garage. How many memories came to me! We lived in that garage, years ago, for some months. It was funny until winter came and it was too cold to stay there, and we found a flat for rent which we could afford.

I suppose that I was happy there. Those months, more than seven years ago, were happy and easy. Many times I've driven through that street, but the door is always closed. But it was open then, so I knew he was inside. He's the only one who's got the key. I had one, before. I had things in that garage. I guess he might have thrown them away since I'm gone.

I don't know how to describe my feelings. I don't miss him. I feel sorry for many things, but I don't miss him. I was just suddenly touched by that song, and that door that I hadn't seen open for months. I knew he was there. He didn't know I was there. I felt guilty someway. Again. Just for a change, you know.

I should learn how to talk to people. I should learn to say the right things, in the right moment. I should learn to use words. I should learn not to be afraid of words.

Words can hurt. Words in the air, words that come to your ears, words that go out from your mouth. Words can hurt.

Unsaid words can also hurt. Words kept inside. Silent words. Words that appear on dreams. Dreams of Words. Words that I've said, sometimes, when nobody can hear them. Words I've wishpered softly, just moving my lips, closing my eyes, secretly, because I know they would slowly kill me if I didn't let them go.

Words can hurt. A song can hurt, and can heal.

But today, my friend in the radio, is Monday. And sadness does scare me...

Clean water for goldie Gilbert.

Few weeks ago, at last, I finally got internet at home. One of the first programs I installed was Skype. It's really nice and strange. And one of the first things I saw on Skype was Gilbert. Gilbert is my wee Scottish boy's golden fish. He had put clean water in the fishtank and showed it to me through the webcam.

Gilbert is a happy guy. He doesn't really care if the water is clean or not. He doesn't even care if he has no food for days. He seems to resist everything. He's always happy. I'd like to be always happy, just as Gilbert.

I'm a bit soft lately, and I feel like crying many times. I can't explain why. I almost cried some days ago watching a f** Coca-cola advert on tv. Well, that's not true. I actually did. And I've cried watching some films, and listening to some songs. I feel very sensitive. I can be extremely happy and suddenly feel deeply sad, inexplicably.

I should phone my ex-boyfriend someday, to know if he's ok, and to apologize for the way I left. I've been saying that to myself for months, and I never find the right moment to do it. I guess I'll never find it. The truth is I'm afraid of what he could tell me. He might know by now that I'm going out with someone else. I think I'm afraid he could ask me something about it. I couldn't lie to him. And I can't be bothered explaing anything.

But I don't know why I feel sad sometimes. It's not only because of that, of course. I guess it's something natural and inherent in me. Yes, I think there's a mental illness called manic-depressive, that fits very much with my feelings sometimes. My ex-boyfriend sometimes told me I should visit a psychologist, but I think it's not that bad. I also have my little ways, my little peculiarities...

(my blue eyes says he likes them)

...I've learnt to live with them, because they're harmless. But I guess all that turns me into a bit weird person. Or not. I think everybody's weird somehow. Normality doesn't exist.

But man, I only want to feel happy. Like Gilbert with his clean water.

Expecto Carnis Resurrectionem.

Or how long it takes to a body to decompose.

More than one month ago I talked about the street full of cats. Only one or two days later, one of the cats was dead, probably knocked down, on a side of the road. He looked as he was asleep, laying peacefully under the sun.

He's still there. He, or whatever it remains from him. Now he looks like a thin hairy rug...

(Where's the f** cleaning service in this part of the town??!!)

...and few days ago somebody touched it. Who touched it? Who moved it? Maybe children, playing with everything they find. There are blocks of flats only some meters away from there.

Expecto Carnis Resurrectionem.

That's what's written over the main door of the local cemetery. It's located in the same road, some hundreds of meters from the cat's body. That body is never going to be in a cemetery.

Is somebody waiting for its resurrection?

Is somebody waiting for my resurrection?

I'm afraid the answer is no. I've been tempted by agnosticism, but I'm afraid I'm completely, absolutely, surely atheist.

How could I believe in anything similar to the idea of a 'soul'? What's a soul? Who's got it? I've got it? When did we start having a soul? In which point of human evolution there was a monkey who, suddenly, had a soul? Who can believe that?

The last thing I want to do is to offend somebody. I only needed to say what I feel.

I don't feel upset for not having a soul. There's nothing to worry about. Sometimes I'd love to believe in all those things most people believe. Believe that our life isn't just an accident. Believe that someday we're going to see again those we've loved and lost.

I'm envious somehow. I can't believe that.

The Dream of Words.

Dark night. No lights. No stars. I guess my eyes are closed. Not really sure if I’m awake. Then I hear a voice. The voice says something. Next morning I realize I was sleeping. It was just a dream. A dream with words. Only words. No images at all. Many weeks have passed.

I said nothing, about my dream of words. I didn’t understand it. I was just thinking if I will ever explain it. But I don’t think so.

I forgot something. If you don’t want to feel disappointed about someone, you mustn’t expect from people what they can’t offer to you. The point is just you have to know what is in everyone’s hands to be given, and what not. It’s as simple as that. And I forgot it. It was my fault.

Talking about strange days.

My company is a chaos today. We knew it would happen someday. They had been talking about that for months. Restructuring. We just didn’t know how many people and, of course, who was going to be fired…

We had a meeting with the general manager at 9:30 this morning. And everything started. A whole part of the company is going to disappear. Last year the company made a huge loss. Too many millions. We would have gone bankrupt if stockholders hadn’t decided to invest some more money. But a part of the company is going to disappear. The thing hasn’t finished. There are two new meetings this evening. I don’t know if I will still have a job at the end of the day.

Strange, strange. Girls crying all over the building. Improvised meetings in the offices.

Strange, strange. I went to the warehouse this morning, and I saw one the boys who works there. I see him there sometimes. He asked what was going on here in the office. I quickly explained the situation. He asked my name. I told him.

‘When are you going to give me your phone number?’

‘I’m not going to give you my phone number’

‘When are we going to go out for a coffee? Are you married?’ he said while he was holding my hand and looking at my ring. ‘Have you got a boyfriend?’

‘No, I’m not married, but yes, there is someone. And we’re not going to go out for a coffee’.

Jesus! What a day he’s chosen to ask me out. Well, I’m not going to go out with him anyway. I don’t even know his name. I only know he’s foreigner, maybe from Russia or Poland. And anyway, I’m not really interested now.

In short, this day is being really odd. And it’s not finished yet. Let’s see what’s going to happen!!!

Strange day, strange feelings.

Today would have been our anniversary. We would have been together for eight years if I hadn’t left him three months ago. I’m not sad anyway. I know it wouldn’t have been a happy anniversary. As it wasn’t last year. I bought a present for him, last year. He didn’t, and I knew he wouldn’t. And he told me that it was a normal day, that he had nothing to celebrate.

What he had is what he wanted. There’s nothing else I can say. Still hurts? I’m not really sure. I’m sure he’ll be all right. Maybe he doesn’t even remember what day is today. He was never good at that kind of things.