I kicked the wall, dreaming of a soccer ball. I might have been a child again, doing keep-ups. After about a week of sobriety, I was good and drunk going to sleep, but I somehow remembered that dream, despite the joints and all the shots. I kicked the wall and it was time to wake. Pain takes my sleep away; the slightest pains tell me to rise. I think I whispered, “Sorry,” as I left the bed and she replied by digging her arms deeper into her pillow and stretching her leg further down the mattress. I think I smiled.
Sitting in the living room, I wasn’t haunted by my hangover or the dreary looking Saturday outside, or the stupid kitten meowing at nothing…My notebooks on the other hand never loosen their grip; those notebooks, half-naked nearby, remind me constantly that I have neglected the only healthy habit in my life, for quite some time. I leaned back, fingers curled around my mug of coffee, I recalled a phone call I’d made the night before; my intoxicated impulse to make someone happy…I recalled my brother’s voice and our brief conversation, as I hurried to my notebook to write something about it all, to write him a letter, to write him a poem, whatever, whatever came… I hurried to my notebook, as quickly as one tends to hurry on a dreary hungover Saturday. Who am I kidding; I probably just rose slowly out of my lightheaded form, grunting and clearing my throat, as I staggered over to the table, flipping calmly through my half-naked notebook, to the empty page where the only healthy habit in my life, awaited my return.
“You sounded tired. I remember all those years, watching you read, watching the books that kept your solitude company. You brought me into the page, and I thank you brother; being alone never seemed to scare you and I still admire that. But the other day, you sounded so alone, as if a thousand silent sighs trapped in your throat, were keeping you up. I can’t remember the last time I called, but I’m going to try. It seems as if we must share our voices with each other, our voices at least…I was pacing back and forth, hearing you speak, and looking around, I was certain that life had us by the balls, but for years now I’ve known that you and I are both lovers deep down inside, and lovers manage, lovers somehow…Somehow, you sounded so alone. I paced rather frantically with your solitude in my ears. Faint and distant childhood echoes giving me goosebumps; damn, I had goosebumps talking to you! Did I even ask, ‘How are you?’ It’s been a while, I have to try. You might be happy to know that I’m no longer running the way I used to. I’m trying to take care of this corner that I’ve found; in this corner, keeping in touch can’t be so hard. Brother, please visit us one day. We’ll break a lonesome loaf. If you’re ever in the beaches, let me know, it’s a great place to spread one’s solitude; the water listens…Anyways, this is me, trying desperately to write again, stirring a mix of poetry and sentiment in the early hours of this dreary Saturday, hanging over hopelessly, in search of a path I used to know, one familiar thread; perhaps, you’ll help me with it all once we meet. After all, you brought me into the page and I thank you brother; you always knew how to be alone and I truly admire that.”
There’s an empty field somewhere, where I’m still doing keep-ups. In the hollows of my head there are bruises that keep me calm, pockets of pain that take me back. Sometimes, without even trying, I see that I still might have a few good impulses left within my gut, and I’m still doing keep-ups. These days, I zone out quite often; I blurry my eyes and search through fragments of sentences and incomplete paragraphs, scattered on an empty field somewhere, in my blurry eyes… Sometimes, a single ending floats passed; those single endings remind me that I owe it to myself, to my half-naked notebooks nearby. She was awake and as she entered the living room, my blurry eyes faded inwards and I dropped the pen, leaning back and trying to smile. I think I smiled.
“God!” she sighed, dropping herself on the couch.
“No more wine, ever.”
“In a week or so, maybe” I said, clearing my throat and adding ,”Is this gonna be a two day hangover?”
“All weekend baby!” she exclaimed, bursting with laughter for about a second, then coughing for a few and just as quickly she threw her feet on my lap, wiggling her toes. “Rub?”
In this corner that I’ve found, touch is a forgetful drug, but my notebooks on the other hand, never loosen their grip.