Читать книгу Размышления в тему и без - Армине Аракян - Страница 9

What a strange weekend… I’ve been watching movie after movie till my eyes hurt enough to remind me of Visine and of the need to switch it off and go to sleep. I was watching movies which I never watched before. Movies which aroused nothing but disgust before. But now they aroused nothing in me. I watched Cargo 200, perhaps the blackest movie I have ever watched. I watched Morphine… another hopeless story which proves the senselessness and vanity and needlessness of all our efforts to pretend that we are better than we are in reality… Why those movies did not touch me today? I was watching bloody scenes, not visual graphics like in horror films, but really bloody scenes of amputation, of real living maniac doing god knows what… I was watching it without blinking an eye, without even holding breath… NO, please, the movies were PERFECT! Balabanov is one of the best movie-makers of the world, perhaps equal to Tarantino in his grotesqueness. This is not what matters. The matter is with me. I am scared of it. This is the indifference. The self-destroying indifference towards everything happening. As if it all happens to someone else, not me. The reluctance to move, to speak, to act, to learn, to smile. Getting back to the state of trance, waiting the end to come. Waiting the last day as a solace. Starting to cry, but holding back tears, as if ashamed of my own momentary weakness. Waking up, hoping for the end of the day. Going to work, hoping for the time to run home and get shut down in the safety of my own bedroom. Psychologists would give this syndrome some clever name. I do not care how it is called. I do not even care how it is felt. I do not care if it will end or not. I do not want to know where it started and why. I am not angry. I am not sad. I am not happy. I am not grieved. I am not. I AM not. Running from myself somewhere! But myself is chasing me, clinging to me, not letting me go, not letting me escape. Oh yes. And I did not listen to music today. Nor did I yesterday. And the day before yesterday. Three days without music. And with Balabanov. Can we call this a punishment of some kind? I think we could. Myself is chasing me non-stop… Myself is cruel. Myself hates me and wants to hurt me. And the one who can save me is very far away, busy acting himself out. Acting so talentlessly, so miserably that I hate myself for letting him in. He does not let me go. He holds me. His silence is chasing me together with myself. I have two enemies: Myself and his misery. We are so similar to each other in our chase. I almost let him catch me. I almost did that – but he did not believe me. He will never believe that I was in his hands, with myself. With the best in me. Such a strange weekend it was. A strange weekend with strange impressions and strange visions. A horrible runaway from myself. It hurts so much. When will you come and take this pain away? I am waiting. I know I must wait. I know you are there and you do not let me go. Do not cry. You are crying my tears away too.