It all begins with a single thought.
“Where the hell am I?”
Me and Beard boast the same fucked-up nightmarish masks; our faces and bodies in decadence. We look like ghouls, but we do not mind. Why should we? Sometimes I try to convince myself that I should stop being such a pessimist.
I think of this as I drink a cup of water in the kitchen. Then, I look at the empty kitchen floor trying to recover my sense of space and time. Meanwhile, Beard’s black eyeballs dance across the kitchen walls; he also scratches his right arm, scratches it as if he wants to pull the skin from his bones, and then pours me another drink. We sit opposite each other. Beard lights a cigarette. The both of us continue to stare, mute. We remain silent, yet unbeknownst to Beard, loud ideas swirl in my head without a particular bearing. I cannot help but think like a dog with rabies. I drink, feeling how the liquid corrodes my throat. And I face Beard. His eyes elicit my tension and fear, as if an invisible spell emanated from them. I open my mouth to say something, but I get caught up in my ideas.
Time goes by as I listen to Beard coughing, his lungs rot.
“You look like you had a strange dream last night.”
“I think I did.”
“What did you dream?”
“I dreamt of a boy.”
“What did he look like?”
“What did he tell you?”
“That things would be fine.”
“Tou really are having a crisis.”
“At my age?”
“I suppose you could be right.”
“Do you think the dream meant anything?”
“It will mean something if I really want it to mean something. Then again, it could not mean nothing at all. Just my mind playing me tricks. Your call, cabrón.”
“If were you, I would think of the dream as a wake-up call. Too much thinking, man.’
“Listen, it is better to think of it as pure thinking. A dream, nothing more.”
“Maybe I am too complicated. Hell, we are all complicated. Maybe there is no interpretation to be made. We feed off contradiction, do we not?’
We talk for hours. He leans on the wall, smoking and scratching his arm, time and again, as if wanting to tell me something beyond what is said. I sit on the floor, thinking ahead of time. At times Beard is philosophical, at times banal. I also fiddle with my hands and daydream inside memories. I answer his questions as they arrive, trying to be as honest as possible; I know Beard knows that philosophy is the road to my heart. He likes pleasing me with questions in an attempt to tear my mask off. So as to take a peak inside of me. But he knows all too well that I will not give him the right answers. Because, in the end, I cannot explain what has been going on with me.
[Photograph by Jonas Dyhr Rask @ https://jonasraskphotography.com/street/]