A someone

Woke up exhausted, the summer sun piercing trough my thin curtains in the early morning. Sunday. Another day in the excruciating anxiety-packed life of The Writer. Fun. Fun. Fun.

I can’t complain about loneliness or these creeping feelings of abandonment. They all left me, yes. Though in hindsight, most of them could have been more than fugitive flings, but I was closed up. Was. Am.

I will reach for her, or the idea of her, in the middle of the night. My hand will meet nothing but the cold empty space of her side of the bed. There’s no her, and the concept of that (im)possible person vanishes with every fleeting thought of “a someone.”

El parque

Me he tomado el Lunes libre, hastiado de un trabajo que no pensé seguiría haciendo a mis 35. El sol brilla sobre Copenhague, 22 grados quizás. O 23, sin viento. Si mi ánimo se guiara por la temperatura, quizás esta ansiedad que me carcome no me perseguiría por todos lados. Quizás.

Si siguiera viviendo en Santiago de Chile, no podría estar escribiendo libremente como lo hago ahora; sentado en un parque con mi Macbook Pro en mi regazo. Tampoco me sentiría seguro de tomar mi bicicleta y cruzar la ciudad en hora punta, menos un día Lunes. Me encantaría poder extrapolar esa tranquilidad a mi infierno interior, extinguir las llamas negras de mi angustia con la idea del confort escandinavo. Pero no. Mis demonios son independientes de toda lógica. Unos anarquistas del dolor.

Le escribí a una de mis últimas amantes por Whatsapp, acorralado por la asfixiante soledad de mi departamento en Frederiksberg. Quizás si la follo esta noche logre acallar por algunos instantes el tormento de mi cabeza. Pero he fornicado a más de 20 distintas amantes en los últimos dos años y el resultado es siempre el mismo. Culpa. Vacío. Arrepentimiento. Hastío. Y de vuelta al mismo círculo. Repetirlo hasta el cansancio y volverlo a repetir.

“Muchos matarían por la oportunidad que tú has tenido,” me escribió papá por Facebook. Se ausenta de mi vida por 34 años, pero su sabiduría parece trascender el resentimiento y el olvido. Pero no me basta. Todo esto ya lo sé. Es obvio. Nuevamente, mis demonios desconocen la voz de la razón. Sordos.

Tetas y culos por doquier, cuando levanto la vista y miro a mi alrededor. A las vikingas les encanta tomar el sol en bikini, dónde sea. Dinamarca me llena de aparentes bendiciones, pero de a poco me he vuelto inmune al optimismo. Un cínico de mierda. Demasiado sobrio. Demasiado solo.

De regreso en mi departamento, Whatsapp permanece silencioso. Al parecer, no habrá sexo esta noche. Volveré a trabajar, otro Martes más de nada. Y luego, Miércoles de lo mismo. Y así, hasta quién sabe.

¿Qué viene ahora? ¿Quién viene ahora? Y, sobre todo, ¿importa una mierda?

Asses and shit

I look out the window and I see a middle-aged man wiping his little dog’s ass, as it looks back at him, probably wondering how pathetic human life is. My dad has a take on that: “A man has to stomach a lot of shit before kicking the bucket.” He also wipes his dogs’ asses, like it’s no big deal. He has probably endured plenty of shit in his life already; enough to make him comfortable removing it from some beast’s hairy asshole.

On the asshole note, I lost my adult anal virginity to a 70-year-old man, a couple of days ago. I went to the doctor because my gut has been acting up, all swollen and bloated again. “I have to check your anus, get some samples,” he said, smiling. I laid on my side, facing the wall, my naked ass sticking out towards him. The man got the job done with three different anal swabs. I sighed. Life just keeps getting better and better. My guts, worse and worse.

Going cold turkey on my pills might not have been the best idea. Anxiety came back and settled in, feeling all nice and comfortable, at home in my fucked up head. I haven’t been a good boy, though. Maybe it’s the universe’s way of saying “Fuck you. This is what you get.” Or something.

At least my writing drive is slowly returning. Angst squeezes more words out of me than the sense of happiness, that’s for sure. Writers, you know, are such clichés. But I’m not drinking. Haven’t done it in seven months. We could agree that I’m a cliché with an edge.

The Muse haven’t sit on my lap yet. She stares at me from the other end of the bar, as I sip a lemonade with mint and a touch of ginger. “Faggot,” she thinks, as she downs her third whisky, neat. But I’m okay with it. I have a 5-year plan to fulfill. A gut to cure. Anxiety to deal with. And an ass to wipe. Luckily, my own. There’s still some dignity left in me.

The comeback

And it stopped, just like that. The words didn’t flow anymore and the blog became silent. My head wasn’t quiet, though. Nor my dick was inactive. Those last days in Chile weren’t shy on the wet and warm visits of a female companion, as my stay back home was coming to an end and the winter approached from the Far North.

I was on drugs, to keep my anxiety down, and high on life. Cryptocurrencies were my new addiction. Didn’t need alcohol nor women when I could spend my cold and dark winter evenings in Copenhagen, diving head first into imaginary money and fictional gains.

I didn’t need women. I had a few, anyway. And the problems came along.

35 years. It sounds like a long time. Long enough to polish and craft myself into a decent human being. But no. I needed more time. Dropping the looney pills didn’t help. Anxiety came back with full force, like a tsunami of self-destruction. And I became a hurricane, ravaging everyone on my path.

But I stayed sober. 6 months and counting now. Not all is lost.

Gave up on my ex. But, somehow, I haven’t given up on love. “Love.” “Amor.” “Kærlighed.” However you wanna call it. The expectations of it, lingering under all that depression and existential angst. That subtle light amidst the darkest, longest night.

My family got closer together. My stay in Santiago wasn’t in vane, and I left happy. Somewhat happy. Content, at least. “My work here is done,” I might have thought. Yet, there was a job far from completion. The final achievement: myself.

Work in progress, I guess.

I survived an exhausting, endless winter. Been kicked on the floor by waves of failures and anxiety, that keep on coming as the spring slowly shows her face, caressing my bleeding wounds with rays of sun and a certain sense of hope.

Is there hope, though?

A book of Bukowski stares at me from a not so distant table. I’m afraid of the word. Writing. Reading. Sometimes even talking. “Words create reality,” my ex once said. She was naked. I was naked. In that instant, nothing else existed. The gray winter and the future were outside in Santiago, in Norway, in Denmark. Rotting beforehand; the carcass of what wasn’t meant to be.

“What now?” you must be wondering. That makes two of us.

The Decadence Chronicle. Episode 110: Suck it, Kerouac

It’s 01:02 AM in Copenhagen. Cold. Dark. Luckily, I’m not there. “Pilar is a fancy neighborhood surrounded by slums,” the cab driver said, pointing out the window, into the weak lights by the side of the road. Argentina is a rough place. I’m walking in a mall. The sun is setting and I’m bored. Anxious. I need a drink. Fucking business trip. Fucking sobriety. “Got the lonely traveler blues,” I write my friend. Back in the hotel. I go on Tinder. Play Candy Crush. Tinder again. Candy Crush now. Instagram. Happn. Tinder. Hit the hotel gym. I exhaust myself. A skinny milf works out. Looks at me with disdain. I’m not wearing workout clothes. I’m hungry. In my room again. Naked on the bed. Tinder. “December 1st,” I think. As if it never happened. As if I didn’t stalk my ex on Facebook and didn’t find her and didn’t stare at her newest picture for far too long and felt the weight of the truth. As if I didn’t care about her 30th birthday. But the urge to write that obnoxious Whatsapp message wasn’t there. Can’t stop hurting, but I can stop hurting her. I hope. Though I haven’t eaten and still sit naked on my king-size bed at the Sheraton Pilar. Writing what I thought would be my response to Kerouac and his stream of consciousness crap. Can’t do that. I like paragraphs and the sense of style. Yet, I can’t seem to break these words into smaller chunks of digestible text. Or anything readable nor worth spending a few minutes on. Jumping back and forth in time, in my head. You can’t… No: you won’t even begin to understand what it feels to be stuck in this head of mine. Ask my therapist. She’s confused. She can’t find Eduardo in me. Hell, I can’t find Eduardo in here, either. Who is that guy? All these turns and twists and life changes and women and fucking emotions. It doesn’t stop. I will not make it stop. I fuck up and repeat. The names change. The locations. The backstories. The smells and flavors and traits. They always change. But they are the same: black. Big black holes to be. Just a matter of time. And the emptiness within grows. And I grow into it, to become nothing. So I’m not better than him. I can’t kill him. Cannot kill my father and his legacy in me. Eduardo Hernández, II. The heir of a long lineage of fuck-ups. Me, the recovering alcoholic. The regretful brokenhearted mess. Oddly optimistic at times. Rarely. Not very good at ending stories. Or telling them. Not freezing in Denmark, though. Silver linings.