I have been keeping track of my little brother from the moment we got separated. It is strange, for nine months we were exactly the same age, but the moment our roads forked and I decided to go along with our mother, he became the newborn baby, while my age turned indefinite and timeless, stretching across centuries and continents. I never had my first birthday, yet I am as old as mankind, the pyramids and the redwoods on the coast of California. I have never experienced anything yet intuitively know every story, every emotion as if I am the village elder sitting on the fountain of knowledge. The medicine woman, the witch, the one people turn to for advice and consolation, or sometimes just to hear their own voice. When you die exactly at the moment of your birth you get stuck; you never actually lived. A small fruit in your mother’s womb, like a pomegranate full of seeds, each carrying in it a promise. The potential to become something, anything, good or bad, but instead I became a memory without a future, connected to this little lonely boy that tried to keep himself standing in a house without love. I have watched him struggle with things that have seemed so obvious for me; the outsider with an objective view, the inside trader making millions by acting at exactly at the right time. Yet I could never reach him, share my knowledge, help him understand the things he was going through. He had to do it all by himself and it breaks my heart again and again. I’m the fly on the wall observing his actions, as if collecting material for a documentary on the life of a young man, lonely and alone. He never knew I was there of course. He was brought up to believe there are no such things as spirits and that is correct. I have never encountered any anyway. It seems like I am some sort of freak accident, as if I got stuck in the revolving doors between life (that didn’t happen for me) and death, which kind of happened, but as I never lived a life, I feel I never really died. So here I am, aware and wise and unable to do anything about anything. That is why I want to tell you this story. The story of a struggling boy who grew into a struggling young man under the cold eye of a struggling father. The man who lost the woman he loved and the daughter he never knew on a beautiful spring morning full of promise. I am witness to their hopeless attempts of love each other and getting on with their lives. I am the spectator to their weird games, this sport with stringent rules that they play from morning to night. A Perpetuum mobile of family ties and expectations, a pushmi-pullyu that is doomed to stay in one place forever, progress an eternal frustrating dream. I see it when they both try to bridge the gap, but somehow their attempts always fail. Murphy’s law cannot be escaped, like rain on your birthday party, spaghetti sauce on your favorite white shirt or the neighbours keeping you up with their loud sex while you’re still a virgin daydreaming of intercourse the way explorers dream of uncharted territories.
Song for today: Feist – It’s Cool To Love Your Family