(You may want to read part 1 and part 2 first).
Looking into a wooden framed mirror, looking at me, feeling the rain running through my veins, I see the wall veining. Behind me, the cassettes lying on the desk by the dusty stereo are merely a vanguard of an old memory waiting to re-emerge into the light of this dimly shining bulb, this lamp that casts a lonesome shadow by the dirty window looking outside upon an unkempt garden, awaiting anything but another long year.
I had been fiddling around with my ballpoint all the way here, but the thoughts wouldn’t come streaming onto the yellowish piece of paper lying on the shaky small metal plate that they call a table. I can’t recall the fragrance of chrysanthemum. I know it was there, then, in this past that I tried to leave behind but barely managed to blot out. I know I could smell it once, sense how the pollen arose from this golden flower, slowly floating through the air into my soul, letting the voice of forlornness trail off, but I cannot anymore.
Jumping out of the train after the awfully long ride felt like finally coming home, at least close to what this expression describes. I never understood the notion of home anyway, some seem to think it is a fixed place, others are convinced it is linked to certain people. Perhaps it is simply because the fragrance of chrysanthemum has long vanished out of my life, and even though I hoped to find it in this new place, so far I didn’t.
Time pivots around seconds, slews around minutes, veers around hours, throwing the days at the months only to twiddle around years. What importance has time anyway? Is it of any use other than to measure the moments of pain, add the instants of solitude and multiply by the ever ongoing ticking of the clock, only to end up with a state of continuous trepidation?
I got a friend who’s a pure bread killing machine and I don’t feel like dancing. I wonder if now she is at the lake, I would travel back around the globe if I knew she was. Probably she isn’t and never will be. Blessed fairy walking next to that torrible honor. No, she isn’t there. You will find your honor, shaped a bit differently, but somewhat being the same, higher perfection that only exists once in this universe. I never believed in this paradox. It is true though in the withdrawal of chrysanthemum.
My heart is playing havoc with my mind, my thoughts are reduced to hodgepodge, my soul has long fallen into topsyturvydom. Not once did the world stop turning. Looking at the person reflected on this glass I ask myself if I know him, but I don’t even have a sense of déjà vu.
Hello stranger, I am you. Welcome to nothingness.
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