Dear Future Historian,
I need to talk, even if it’s been 13 years.
At the cemetery. Everyone is dead here. Everyone but me. A
cat suddenly appears from behind a grave. I keep walking. At some point, I reach
John's grave.
‘Hi mate, I told you I'd come'.
I take off my shoes. Graves are holy ground. I place the
sleeping bag on and sit down. Next, I take the bottle of wine that I had
brought and open it.
‘Cheers John'. I drink a bit, then I get up, lift the
sleeping bag, and pour some wine on his grave.
I was about to drink some more wine, but then I thought that
I would need a wee soon. I have a long night ahead of me. The cold is getting
stronger. I lay in my cocoon, on the grave, when I thought I heard footsteps. I
jump up. Well if it was a ghost then John could also become a ghost and he'd
protect me. Maybe.
‘Will you ever forgive me mate for... for letting this
happen?’
I only knew him for three months. And at first, he was more
into my sister anyway. But I was recovering from a break-up. And we had the
best 3 months ever. Or it would have been if I wasn't still in love with my ex.
Then Autumn came, along with my ex. He wanted me back, I
wanted him back.
I hated him.
‘Why now? Now that I have to break someone's heart to be
with him. Maybe I have to stay with John now; maybe we will outlive John and
get back together in the far future, after he is… not-here-any-more.’
That was of course never the plan. That was just a thought.
A fast disposable thought. But, not fast enough for me not to remember that it
did indeed cross my mind just three days before John jumped out of a mental
hospital window!
I was grumpy that weekend. My ex met me to ask me for a
goodbye-coffee before he went backpacking in Italy. John realised my mind was
elsewhere and started acting weird. I said I needed some time to process all
that, how I felt and what I wanted. I wanted to go backpacking too.
John mentioned death wishes. He was saying stuff about the
devil, and magic ceremonies he had participated in as a teenager. He thought
that his soul was doomed and that he brought misfortune to his family. I wasn't
in the mood for helping anyone. I needed help myself. I wanted everyone to
leave me alone.
‘What the heck mate? I've told you my ex was about to
kill himself some months ago. And that I only recently recovered from my
religious upbringing. And now you tell me about suicide and the devil?’
I didn't say all of that of, course. I just said something
like:
‘Jesus can save you, even though I don't believe in any
of that anymore. But if the devil exists, then so does Jesus, I guess. I know
people that can help you. Let's talk about it on Monday.’
And then I left him. I just like that opened the door and
left, telling myself that I can't save everyone.
‘I'm just a bisexual, weird girl, with dyslexia,
depression and anxiety. Why do I have to save the world?’
That was the last time I saw him. He went to a church that
night. It was locked. He freaked out and some neighbours called the police.
They took him to a mental hospital. He managed to break some bars and jump out
of the window.
There, laying upon John’s grave, I promise that I will never
underestimate the power of my help and my energy again. I could have helped him,
or at least I could have tried. I did know people that could actually help him.
But I thought it wasn't my job to save him. I thought that I could demand from
the universe a weekend off, to think through my own problems.
I'm cold and I need a wee even more now. The shadows are
spooky and no sign of the cat. I sit up again and as I turn to take the wine
bottle, I see her, the Moon. She's always there for me, always keeping me
company.
I am suddenly aware that I am at a cemetery for real. I get
in my sleeping bag again and I close my eyes.
I start the mantra that my Google search guaranteed would
give me access to the 5th dimension, the place of dreams and the
dead. I add a little bit of Carlos Castaneda and the books, the movies and the
Greek myths that I know, about contacting the dead.
That's what I came to do tonight. Try to contact John for
the last time. Tell him I'm sorry that I didn't even try to save him. And
promise him that I will never shut my door to my friends again. He was my
friend.
Mumbling the mantra, and despite the fact that I want to
wee, I'm cold, and in a cemetery, I fall asleep imagining my funeral. I want to
be re-born. Not in the Christian way. In my way. I want to be the one that will
try to save the world. I want to always have my door open to my friends and I
want my books to affect people, to help them choose life. Back to the mantra.
At 5 am I wake up. I need to go before people start coming.
I pack up. I don't remember my dream. Maybe John heard my apology even if I
didn't hear him. Maybe I wasn't worthy to go to the 5th dimension in
full awareness.
Maybe I'm just getting on the same catastrophic track as he
did. Feeling that I am not good for the people I care for. Feeling guilty led
him to the grave.
Maybe It will help if I write about it.
Maybe... I don't know.
PS. I did a wall-collage when John died, to keep me sane. (You can find photos* of this project @
*by Christina Christidou.
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