“Forever?” it was a question, or an answer to what he was asking himself for the last few days, to things he couldn’t understand, satanic, ghostly, sometimes lovely, tempting, kind of a rubber ball held in hands, pressed against the pressure and its own past, to the will of a single man, or of the whole universe, or just of its fate – questions lurking so deep, so deep that he felt them become part of his anatomy, physical, spiritual, and sometimes he saw them becoming he, clouding over his existence with such god-dam bleakness that he wanted to run away, far to a distant place, and while running he saw his thoughts clutching at him, and dragging him back to the point where he had started, and then he asked such things – to whom? – that was not important. Forever doesn’t come on its own, you got to make way for it; and then after its lifetime, un-make for another forever. No forever is for ever. “Heck, you don’t know even the basic principles,” she cried at him, seeing him lost, duped with the uncertainty of the certain.
Men are the lost animals.
And when they try to seek for themselves, they find only darkness.
They are what they are not; what they should never be.
“Can you guarantee me your love for the whole of our lives, this one, the next one, and the next…write me this, and fix it somewhere in the history, can you?” The anger, built over silence is nauseating. He was stinking of his thoughts, of the lack of thoughts, of disorder, of hatred. She could have held his hands then, put his head in her lap, stroked his hairs, her fingers soothing his head, the disordered, burning head, sweeping the remnants of hatred away from the roots of his hairs, and have talked him through that mess. But she had her own mess to talk to. Her personal dustbin.
That night he couldn’t sleep a wink.
And the night after that.
Until he left home, in one similar dark night, left her sleeping in the dining hall, on the porch, where she snored hanging between the floor and the roof, precarious balance, he thought, at mercy of four iron rods, her whole life, and found no space for a fifth rod. And he left, without any letter under her pillow, or any indication to tell her about his exodus from hell to god-knows-what. Her breathe, typically masculine breathe, followed him until the main door of the house and bid him good-byes, best-of-lucks, fir-aanas. Even her snore wasn’t part of her.