If I were to forget… — @belleartmovement (english version)Belle ART Movement
by Alexandra Ioniță
The T.V throws flashes on the wall, lightning once and again Mark’s expressions on his face. If it wasn’t for this, Xavier would have only distinguish the silhouette framed by the two windows. Perched on the window sill, and with the window open, the young man could feel the freedom of the rain, penetrating his nostrils. The smell of a top of a mountain sneaking around into his parents’ house. Just a dense mosquito net was keeping him away from the exterior of the building and from the cleaned flower pots, in which mother’s cactuses were living their life, a variety of colours and thorns, all hushed by the dark.
Xavier was pretending he was watching Mark, but from behind him, the golden light of a street lamp was reflecting upon the plants from the garden. The doctor fixes intensively the shaken leafs in the pouring rain and the shining produced by the light. It was something about the dark, about the yellow drops of light scattered like some fish’s scales, something about the smell of summer’s freshness and about the lightning that was illuminating the sky from within. Turning towards the other one, he observed how his half-open eyes were fixed on him, how his hand was resting on the window sill, how the light was emphasizing his features and how the flashes from the TV were capturing in a second portraits that remained etched on Xavier’s retina.
“I love the rain,” Mark said suddenly, his voice barely covering the noise provoked by noise. “It’s so simple to love something you understand… But I hate it at the same time for its simplicity to fall into its own death. It throws itself so easily from the clouds in order to crash into the ground, a careless flight with no questions asked. What’s the point of questioning when you know what your final destination is and that you can’t avoid it? And then, before blinking, it’s over. It bursts on house pipes, on palms, on flowers. You can only hear it banging in a cadence that can stand as a rhythm for a poet or a composer. Did you ever listen carefully?”
His words burned out in nothingness, and the man remained still with his eyes fixed on the figure of the other man, like a ship’s captain caught in a big storm, who’s only saving is the light of a lighthouse. In the silence disturbed only by the electric buzzing of the TV, they could hear water dripping down the house eaves. The plants in the garden are shaking under the rain’s caress, and Mark remembers his mother’s words, who, somehow, managed to see behind the reality filters an inaccessible world to others. Walking around sprouts and vigorous trunks, she used to tell stories to the flowers, which giggle enticed by rain, that dances on an unheard song, but one that you could have hear too if you were truly attentive.
Mark was blinded by this muted rebirth, unassisted by symphonies or by paintings he’d understand and he had learnt only when he was in hospital to appreciate the clouds in the sky, the moon cycle or the wind that brought branches closer to his window. Now, the artificial light coming from the TV seemed disturbing to him, with its monochrome thunders.
“Ah, the cable doesn’t work anymore,” the same man mumbles and jumps off the sill to look for the remote.
He crosses the room, holding the little object in his hand. He stood still in front of the screen, a rectangle which only showed an endless alternate between grey tones and unsettles points, which were flying off from place to place like particles of pollen carried away by birds. In this whole time, Xavier, after Mark’s words, was feeling like coming out from under water or from a sea of fog. His innocent confession had awaken in him cold shivers down his spine. He tried decomposing the senses, or he tried finding them a goal, but his mind already had alarm signals and he didn’t know how to mute them. All of them? One by one? Ignore them? He would have wanted to choose the most innocent sense and childish sense of all of them.
He turned on his heels only to find the young man, sitting on the edge of the bed, with his emotionless face, lost into something that didn’t seem like thoughts anymore, but fantasies Mark struggled with when he forgot to take his pills. Sitting next to him, he didn’t say a word, he just tried to understand what happens in his mind. He felt his body weighing more than usual, a late effect of the alcohol, but he let himself falling into its magic nets.
“What was I saying?” Mark asks, half twisted towards him.
But instead of an answer, Xavier watched the remote and pushed the button. The room plunged into darkness until they got used to the dim light coming through the windows.
“I think you wanted to do this” he murmured quite intimidated.
The closeness, that until then it would have freak out Xavier, grinded by the rational thought that he was doing something wrong just by being in that room. The advantage he had until that point, that of self control, was removed from him and given to Mark in an unbalance of chances. And, although he could have invoked any other reason to leave, the doctor didn’t move not even once inch when the hand of the other caressed his cheek, detached from the meaning of his gesture.
“Have you ever thought what’s the reason we like stories?” Mark whispered. “It opens limitless horizons, and weren’t they written by people with hope, just like us? They make you always come back to them because their world is better than our world. And what we, humans, want, besides control, isn’t it oblivion?”
“You know… Sometimes I wish I could understand how you can go from day to day without losing yourself in your own novels, maybe this way I could learn from you how to forget that we have an ending.”