He lost some of his ability to wander. It had been a long time without walking mile after mile breakfastless, no defined goal ahead, assisting to two different and simultaneous concerts – the endless stream in his head, and the light and sound forcing their way into him. But, being a well administered dude, he planned some of his unexpected – unwanted – freedom: getting some cigarettes was paramount, with them he could begin to sketch a road; then, the trolley – cause it was cheaper. Unwillingly recreating Buenos Aires and descending at Recoleta when the bus stopped at Chapultepec. The city offered new patterns but he had no interest, nor any reason, to get lost into them. At one point, he assumed what he already knew – maybe even before getting out of the house – and, while heading to yet another Starbucks, he proceeded to methodically ingest the alegría he had packed, carefully controlling the gag reflex and overlooking the sickly sweet flavour and the heartburn it caused.
He passed the bankcard to the young and rude barista and, in the motion, knocked down some publicity item. He still wonders why he apologised for that. Finally, he sat out to drink and smoke – same old routine: netbook, coffee, cigarette pack, stolen lighter, and backpack at the side chair, Yeah Yeah Yeahs still repeating in the earphones. I would like to say he felt – or thought, or discovered – that he had lost his writing drive. But we know the truth very well, him and me, and there’s no point any more in trying to conceal it from you, he never had any writing drive – or will, or even any hint of writing capacities. And there he was, once again, forcing his way ahead the white jungle of nothing, clumsily tracing a path of black pixel symbols that he fantasised to master, but which he don’t really know – or understand. Desperately, he wanted to channel the tension in his body and skin through a flow of words that he dreamt of being like a wide and straight highway but are just mere stonemarkers in the woods. As if he had never really got out of home and had just read away his journeys through various cities in travelguides, he only kept notes of those imaginary markers to confirm a certainty that something had to exist outside, somewhere. I know he needed – I know I still need – a witness to visit the marked places with him, someone to listen so he could believe his own stories. The white page – whether it was made of paper, electronically projected over a screen, or just the air echoing his words – was an obsession for this obsessive character, and another excuse for feeling frustrated – but that’s just common place for obsessive-compulsive personalities. Everybody knows that one can’t just write down seldom feelings and reflections; no matter how good they may be, they will not be worth reading.
He was unable to express his highest desire to drain out all of his own thoughts and feelings and let the world in: to stop the boundless stream in his head and let in the noise – the experience of riding the bus, staring out the window and feeling the air over one’s face. The one that repeats, potentially – uniquely –, in every city at any moment of the day or the night. But he just couldn’t recreate that sense of selflessness with words and was, thus, condemned to fill his pages with anecdotes. I feel sympathy for my brother’s pain, but don’t try to help him any more. I found abode for my own anecdotes within my log, and I keep it always hidden; now, I content myself with just half of the work, the one half that I master. I read and depart, but never try to come back home: I don’t write, I never do.
I found Brother today at noon, sitting in yet another Starbucks, drinking and smoking – same old routine, again: netbook, coffee, cigarette pack, stolen lighter, and backpack at the side chair. I tried to say hello, but he didn’t notice me. Being trapped nowhere, imagining himself away, and never getting anywhere, I can’t welcome him back to the world. I can’t wave him goodbye for good.
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