I’ve almost finished a very sad story, a story I am too familiar with to some capacity. A Little Life is difficult to read. Mostly because it reminds me of him and our lives, how they, to me at least, still seem so connected by our weaknesses and by who we wish to be for the other person. The decisions I make in life are only partly mine. And partly they belong to him – they are the decisions I make to be there for him, to be the person he needs me to be. I am in Europe and the reasons for being here are all muffled up – the work feels more substantial, my current relationship was not evolving towards the depth I always seemed to find with him, and he was in a strange situation not knowing which continent will claim him in the end. And so I took the courage and came here to live and breath in the cold air in the moments where I wait for him. Wait for it all to make sense again.
We don’t talk anymore and yet my body is still so intimately tuned to a silent conversation of our lives. Our story has all the hurt and pathos and inexplicable pains that A Little Life has too. I am pushing the last few pages to last me for a couple more days, not willing to let go of the thoughts that I have of him when reading this story.
I can’t explain why it still feels like we are the same person, just divided by space and time, but still together enough that we float, without any strong dedication, towards a certain future. Maybe it’s because A Little Life takes place in New York that I am so keenly reminded and enveloped in our own little life there: the talk we had about everything and nothing, each not knowing why we are there with the other at that moment, the walk and the rain and the almost cinematic quality to sounds and passing images and our bodies open and expecting of what can happen next, of all possibilities. Back then we were not tied to any conclusions or any opinions. Back then we were dazed and so incredibly young.
We saw the world as a place that was born anew for us, that accepted us and gave us a purpose once more. Both of us failing at the life we had before, both of us rejecting that life with all we had. It felt like we both were just recently born to this world, that’s how young we were back then.
So when I now walk the wet streets of Stockholm or hard polished floors of airports, I always think of our conversation, the one that I continue in my head as if it was never lost, never severed, and sometimes I still imagine that his cloudy eyes are seeing me from a distant corner, full of sadness and anger and disgust at who I’ve become. And yet I don’t feel like I disagree, only like I want to be whole again. Or born again.
Music as of late: Oh Wonder – Body Gold