The Decadence Chronicle. Episode 116: The darkness

There’s only so much racism I can take. No more than just a small dose of these fucking Danes reacting with fear or disdain whenever they -inadvertently- run into me, the “dark guy.” Hardly just a tad of their casual “I’m just coincidentally crossing the street (when I see you walking my way)”, their nonchalant “I suddenly feel the urge to grab my purse (as I notice your non-white mugshot around me)”, or their clever “Kids, come here, hurry! (when my children, innocently, are standing within a 10 meter radius of your unsettling presence)”. Yes, one can get used to these daily expressions of racism and utmost, blatant ignorance. I have, at least. But I had a bad day. So fuck you, you imbecile bigots!

“They are almost positive it’s cancer,” she wrote. My stomach dropped. I barely just met her and I bloody like her. Enough to care. Enough to feel powerless and damn useless now that her mum is sick and I can’t be there to offer her a silent hug, in the middle of this shitstorm. Enough to feel this sympathy sadness, as if it fucking made a difference. Somehow.

My daily struggle seems so petty in comparison. How little a man is when the darkness sets in. And how futile are these words right now.

The Decadence Chronicle. Episode 115: Second chance

Do you want to see a grown man cry? Look no further. Here I am, ready to entertain you with my misery. I have been defeated by time and circumstance. The battle is lost. Lonely tears, streaming down my face; the salty taste of karma in my mouth.

I have spent three years on the run. I ran, fast, away from them all. Closed up, keeping feelings at bay. “Casual.” Terrified of boring Sundays, planning dinners and coupley activities. Afraid of locking myself up in a relationship and missing out on the endless repertoire of other women in the world. Of other lives to live and warm places to hide from my demons.

Women. They paid for all my sins. The Moroccan took the worst; the full-frontal assault of my stupidity, carelessness and self-destructive driving force. But she had the strength to leave in the end, by the time our 10 month affair was holding -barely- by the thin thread of the affection I hadn’t destroyed yet. Until I did.

After my impeccable track record of fuck-ups, how can I ask for anything? What does life owe me, but dying alone? Yet, here I weep. Stripped naked from my usual cynicism and my hardened, thick skin; I contemplate a new glance of love, vanishing in the distance. Physically and mentally exhausted. Emotionally beaten up. For yesterday was a memorable Saturday and the longest date of my life. All odds were against me and, for the most part, I lost. But it didn’t end there. Experiencing her shook me, deeply. It awoke something I believed had died within me: hope.

But then, what? Is there even a “then”?

Karma is a bitch. And a thousand years of apologies won’t wash away the pain I brought to the lives I entered. Do I deserve anything other than this? This feeling of loss, the aftermath of yesterday’s journey between the sheets and inside our souls? Maybe not. But this newfound hope tells me otherwise. “There will be a second chance.”

Too lazy to name this

Words won’t come out. The blinking black line on the empty page seems like a passage to another, darker dimension. The wind blows outside, the clouds move and block out the sun. Summer’s gone. If you close your eyes, you can hear the ocean. But it isn’t. Just the muffled sound of cars passing by in the distance, driving away.

I have made so many mistakes, and hurt so many on the way. Crossed their names and burnt the list. Or they burnt me; my ashes flying away from their existence. Out of sight, out of mind. Clear of me and the bare mention of my name. For good. For the better.

Will I live up to the expectations? One would think that every fuck-up leads you closer to some sort of enlightenment. Is there such a light? Or do we blindly believe in it, to cope with the daily dose of anxiety of this otherwise purposeless, finite time that we call “life”?

Some timid rays of sun make their way through my window. Maybe not all is lost. And maybe, behind the thick facade of normality, even idiots ponder on existential questions that echo in an unresponsive void in the blacker depths of the collective mind. I wonder now if I’m smart at all, or a mere simpleton, prone to over-thinking.

The Decadence Chronicle. Episode 114: Abuse

I sat back, closed my laptop lid and stared at the wall. “Wow… Fuck… Wow…” Couldn’t say more than those two words for the next ten minutes. I was shocked, with too many emotions trying to escape through my eyes and too many thoughts, slamming the doors of my mind. “Fuck… Wow…”

Meeting Anna left me wanting more than just one last sleepover with her. I craved more blasts of the past. More closure. More healing. And, among all those women and above all those stories, there was one to rule them all. The One. The root of all my regret, the very source of the deepest, darkest void within.

L.

I crossed a bridge made of ashes into the unknown, carefully crafting a message meant to serve as both amend and reconnection. I knew that reaching out again, after all what’s been said and done, wouldn’t be well received. But the odd chance of there being a good conversation, or even a friendship, comforted me. Until I got the answer, of course. That fucked me over. Completely.

Abuser.

I told The Moroccan, as I ended our relationship a few days after getting L’s message, that my ex described me as an abuser. “So I can’t be with you. I can’t be with anyone,” I said. And I cried, feeling weak and devastated. For I had failed. “I just wanted to be good. All I’ve ever wanted is to be good, but I can’t. I keep hurting everyone,” I sobbed, feeling more than ever as that lonely, broken boy inside. She held me in her arms until my tears went dry. “You are a good man, Eduardo,” she said, caressing me softly. I didn’t know if I could believe her. I didn’t know what to believe anymore.

The years feel so fucking useless. I was psychologically, emotionally and physically abused by my parents and the school bullies, just to grow up and experience more of that abuse by friends, lovers, bosses, colleagues and so on. For fucking what? To learn what? Fuck all.

I feel like a puppet of destiny, curse to repeat the “Like father, like son” story. I’m nothing but a younger, shittier version of my fucking crap of a father. No wonder I’m an alcoholic, anxious and depressed sex addict, on the highway to self-destruction. Fucking myself up to kill every trace of him in me. Poetic bullshit right there.

Reading the resentful words of my ex was a painful eye-opener. Unintentionally, I became her emotional abuser. Whatever the reasons or the madness that drove me to become that beast don’t matter. Excuses can’t change the outcome of our toxic relationship nor wash her suffering away. And even though I have decided to change for the better and stay away from women, nothing I do will make a difference for her. It’s so fucking helpless. How powerless can a man be?

The Decadence Chronicle. Episode 113: Capitulation

I’m in pain, dealing with a loss I didn’t expect having to deal with. As the doors to the future open wide before my eyes, I can’t help but looking back and suspire with sadness at the sight of what’s gone. An end is always a beginning, yet giving birth to the new hurts like fucking hell.

It was meant to happen, and when it happened, it went by fast. The random message over Facebook. The subsequent conversation. Agreeing to meet. And meeting in Christianshavn. And realizing that what I wished (and feared) for over a year was finally occurring. It was her, right there and then. Though, somehow, it wasn’t. We were changed. Different. Outside and within.

The sole idea of seeing her again would make my heart skip a beat. Now, she wasn’t so terrifying, not anymore. She was just Anna. Seeing her from the eyes of my cynical mind, rather the infatuated eyes of the connection we used to had, was… underwhelming. The primal, wild beauty of the Anna I shared the bed with had been diminished by the distance of time and past emotions. As all the remaining feelings were shut down by the sheer hardness of the impenetrable wall between us. The wall of impossibility, of inconvenience, of a future that wouldn’t nor couldn’t be.

We hugged, sat by the canal and opened the gates of our inner forts just enough to let our truths see the light. It was hurtful for the ego, but great for the the heart. Nor she or I were on the best place for any type of relationship when we met last year. We were just a broken boy and a hurt little girl wearing the skin of two adults, fucking each other to scare the pain away. There was a connection in the midst of our pain, but for her those times were a blur trapped inside a bigger blur of years of escapism from the hurtful days of her past. For me, well, I was too closed up -and still am- to really tell. Or maybe it’s too late to dig deeper. And pointless.

Anna is leaving Copenhagen in a month to, maybe, never coming back. But she had moved on way before making that decision. Even when a while ago she started contacting all of her exes, to make peace with them and herself, she didn’t even think about me. I belonged in the blur and was just buried there. And it fucking hurt hearing that. Still hurts now. But the bluntness of this truth erased all hope of a romantic future with her. That made those two hours, talking by the canal, freeing. Enough to being mutually honest, vulnerable and open. No trace of sexual tension, mixed emotions nor “what ifs.”

It wouldn’t have been genuine if things didn’t end on a bad note, though. So I did what I am best at and fucked things up. In the spirit of honesty from yesterday’s reunion, I wrote her this morning to tell her that, on the split second our eyes locked after the last embrace, I felt like kissing her, “Like no time have gone by from the old days.” She feels betrayed, lied to and pissed at me, of course. She can’t understand that, no matter what reason, facts or dignity dictates, I long for those endless days and nights in bed. The sex, the cuddling, the conversations. “That warmth. That quiet acceptance. That familiarity.” Even if that time is no more. Even if those feelings are gone. Even if that Anna and that Eduardo ceased to exist a while ago.

So, this is it, Anna. I know you told me that you feel relieved I didn’t write about you anymore, but I needed to vent this out. The last mourning session of what we once had. And, although I would love the possibility of being with you and having a glance of that connection one last time, before you leave my existence for good; I’m glad that, at least, you took the time for that last goodbye. I’ve got the closure I needed to turn the page and continue my march towards brighter times. I wish you all the best, kiddo. Have a wonderful life.