The ocean was beating the shit out of the pebbles I was sitting on, and every time she stuck her fingers out towards me, the earth was shaking.
The trail was virtually non existent. The sign was there, pointing at it, but all I could see was an overgrown piece of woodland, thorns in my hands, blueberries scattered around the place and foliage so thick that I could not see the sun. I walked in there anyway, idiot that I was, only to stand still for ages on the spot where the sun came through the leafs of an oaktree that had already began to shed. I had been walking in the sun all the way up here but I only came to appreciate it in the middle of a dark forest with a burn of an overlooked nettle on my leg and a piece of fern in my hair.
My therapist was a retired hippie, which was great because I didn’t feel the need to take her very seriously. Helping others find themselves was just her hobby after all.
The therapist I was forced to visit before this one, was the one connected to the art school I was attending at that time. A man. Poor sod. Most men believe everything you tell them when your mascara is somewhere halfway down your cheek and you are choking on your own tears. This man had a daughter my age, which made matters even worse because he tried his very best to save me. I did not think I needed any saving whatsoever but seeing that going to therapy was the one condition that would make my return to art school possible, I had to show up there every Thursday afternoon for my hour of soul searching. So I went and I talked and I said all the right things and walked out with a degree in art in the end. I was only a tad crazy, the hippie lady said, jokingly, only a tad and nothing serious or I would have ended up in the emergency room with two slit wrists somewhere during my early twenties. I just needed to reroute some angry and selfdestructive thoughts and things would be peachy again.
The hippie therapist had nice earrings. She used to have blond hair but that was long before I met her. “Why are you here?” she asked, blue eyes, she was wearing one of those healimg stones around her neck. “My boyfriend thinks I am crazy,” I replied, looking at her pen on the notepad. I read everything she wrote down, but upside down.
“Okay,” she said, placing her glasses on the top of her head. “So what do you think?”
I didn’t look at her, but fidgeted with my sleeve instead. “I think I am just fed up.” “Fed up with what?” “Life, expectations, babies, boyfriends, shitty jobs, repetition, eating, shitting, sleeping.” I looked at her notes when she answered the phone. Somewhere down the bottom she had written the words ‘borderline personality disorder’ followed by a little question mark. A label, an excuse, the ‘I told you so.’ I walked out again after that, telling the lady that I was cured and thanks for everything. It’s a noble hobby, helping others find themselves. I think her name was Annie, or Astrid or something. I think she was a tad crazy too.
The tap in the bathroom is dripping
and you are getting ready to leave.
“there is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it in the slow movement of
the hands of a clock.
people so tired
either by love or no love.
people just are not good to each other
one on one.
the rich are not good to the rich
the poor are not good to the poor.
we are afraid.
our educational system tells us
that we can all be
it hasn’t told us
about the gutters
or the suicides.
or the terror of one person
aching in one place
watering a plant.”"
— ― Charles Bukowski, Love is a Dog from Hell
No more words
No more nothing
We said goodbye for the last time the way we always say goodbye for the last time but this time it was serious and I felt it in the way you made love to me, it was in your eyes, in your touch, gentle, sad, farewell, I love you, always.