The house in mountain

   It's been over a year that my thoughts roam to the house in the mountains. The last time I went it was a couple of years since my aunt had died and it was the first time that I came across it with a door locked. The garden was in a bad state, nature and the garbage of neighbors and passers by both taking it over and the house was worse. I went up the outer staircase and went to the upper two small rooms, or what was left of them. There was a hole on the floor in the second floor and I wondered whether the roof would off soon too. That was where her son used to live and paint.

  On the ground floor I could not enter some of the rooms, the bathroom was essentially destroyed and the kitchen I preferred to steer clear off but the bedroom - in the past the bedroom and the living room was the same thing - was easy to access. Her bed was there and the heavy wooden drawers too - the top was marble and the wood was carved because in the past that was what you did when you opened your home. The previous time I was in the house my aunt was on the double bed, she was the cousin - or was she the aunt - of my grandfather and at the time both he and her son were long dead and she had been bed-ridden for years. She called for me to go close and she gave me twenty euros, for pocket money, old habits die hard and all of my relatives of her generation are adamant to give us "youngsters" pocket-money whenever they can. It does not matter if they are bed-ridden in a dingy little room with little light coming in from the shutters or if they can hardly cover the medicine bills. They will slip the paper in their hands as they shake yours, like the bribe of gangsters in the movies. 

  When I tried to back away and refuse the money she grabbed my wrist and insisted, I was surprised by the strength in the grip f a woman who could not bring herself to even rise on her elbows. Her eyes had a gleam like she knew that that would be the last time and chance she would have to gift one of the youngsters.

  She had a soft spot for my grandfather who was many years younger than her and she would always talk of his children in one group, their descent being the thing that characterized their existence. She would always include me in the group of my grandfather's children as well, among my mother and her siblings, perhaps because I was oldest. She tried to give us what she could. When she died, she left hardly anyone behind and I came home to find two big black trash bags filled with papers and pencil - supplies of her only son who died long long before. All the relatives went after he death to the home, to clean out (and I suppose to take) what was left with no-one to claim. Seeing as I was the only other person in the family who still drew, my mother requested these things for me. 

  I found it odd and unsettling but up until those two trash-bags I was completely unaware that my uncle used to draw. I knew he had married and divorced and drank a lot but spoke little. It was unnerving to be around him, his parents felt easier to approach. To my knowledge none of his painting survives. Among the papers I found a doodle.

  Standing there in the living room I recalled being a small kid and having my mother make me pose by the entrance with my aunt and her prematurely-blind husband. When I asked why she did it, she told me so that I would not forget and indeed I did not. 

  Three lives came and went and perished in this house and of them remains a few blurred photographs and an abandoned house in the mountain, trapped in the bureaucracy of the always expanding family tree. I longed for that derelict little house with its generous garden with wild roses and fig-trees.

  I sometimes long for it still.

Salt

   I feel sad here - the same kind of sad that I felt in my own country except the distractions are less, I have less access to things that bring me joy but the pay is actually livable. I suppose you can't always get what you want and in any case, everything takes time. Disliking the job means that I will need to find something else to latch onto for dear life and most of the activities - at least the ones involving people - that I had in the past are all but flourishing here. On occasions when I have been invited to social gatherings I have sat quiet, observing the people around me - they were alright but I hardly felt any incline of a connection and so I preferred to shut up.

  That's another thing that I noticed about me: I really did quieten down. I did not swallow my tongue, it is not the timidity of shyness and shame but the complete disconnection with the surroundings. Back home it was less easy to notice though I suspected it but here, in new surroundings where there's less noise coming in it's become more obvious to me that I have grown a preference to keep my mouth shut. 

  I like the balcony of the house. It does not have a stunning view but the area is not so packed with tall houses - in fact, it has less buildings in general and that leaves an abundance of sky there for me to observe at any time of the day. All I have to do is look out of the window. There are moments when I do exactly that and the expanse of it cleanses my insides. For a few moments I am brought back within my body and I am present and I almost feel hopeful, above the tiredness, above it all.

  And in those moments I remember of going to the sea and wanting to cry and join one type of salt water with the other but there were too many people and that usually brings questions. The hindrance of it did not stop the sea from lending its healing hand to me. As a kid whenever I went to the beach and into the water I would always feel spooked and yet would steal away moments away from others during which I would bring my mouth to the surface of the water and I would whisper my secrets and my thanks. I was naturally superstitious and felt that I ought to show respect to water; after all the sea is capricious, it can give you life and it can also take it away.

  Since no-one felt so present for me to say my secrets, I took my loneliness as far out as I dared to venture and keeping my head from the nose-up above the surface, I whispered it all to the sea.  

  And the sea lent its salt for the wounds to try to heal.

The "how are you"s never saved nobody. But they don't hurt either

   The 15th of August is an important christian holiday in most mediterranean countries and mine is not an exception. Though I no longer identify as a christian, many of my family members are tied to that day and besides we are always tied to the the rituals in our life. I tried calling them but they did not reply, perhaps due to the foreign number they did not recognise on their screen.

  It's been about two weeks since my move to a new country and on the outside I have been really lucky: we found a home easily and came across many people willing to help, in spite of the roadblocks that happen along the way (immigration has never been uncomplicated it seems and I have been fortunate.) The blessing of this has been remarkable, without it I think the last part of me would have crumbled on the spot. 

  I left the country while half of it was burning, watching image after image of forests and small towns being engulfed by flames as the fire progressed. A couple more femicides took place as well and though the new life here started as smoothly as it possibly could in my insides a turmoil took hold. I felt rage and the need to mourn rising, choking me and there were no people around with whom I could share how I have been feeling.

  And that has been the hard part: for all its smoothness, all that happened crushed into the pain of leaving my country not for chasing a dream but rather a sense of survival. And the pain was fueled further by all the destruction and pain I witnessed through the lens of others. And for now I have no space here to grieve, not for the future, my country, the things I felt being torn inside me.

  A few people have messaged me to ask how I am but for the most part the conversations feel almost hollow - there was too much in too little time and I did not know how to embark on this conversations. They were nonetheless appreciated even if I lacked words for answering. There is just one thread of conversation that continues to eat away at me and it's filled with goodmornings and goodnights and pretty much nothing else - I wonder whether perhaps neither of us is at fault for this. I'm working on auto-pilot, focusing on the task at hand and nothing further and he works an abominable amount of hours. When he asks how I am I can only say that I guess I am fine. I want to ask for more but there's hardly the space and time and, worst yet, I'm afraid that not only will I not be able to give any support but also that I will burden further and so I stay mute. I feel the silence grow further, every time he says he'll call but inevitably he never does.

  The mere fact that this hurts annoys me but I feel like I have been slipping back into known terrain, learning how to go about as if there never was another voice on the other side of the line and slowly I expect nothing but silence. I start to wonder who will write last into silence.

  At nights I have difficulty sleeping, especially since for now I need to share a bed until we're able to purchase a second one. That makes things harder because I don't have much personal space during the day and now I don't have ti during the night either. For the last couple of months before I left it was a similar situation back at the other home but all the new changes made the lack of space unbearable. Tonight's the first night that I am alone in the house and I have been almost praying that I will break into tears but instead there has been absolute silence. I picked up smoking again, it won't be for long so I allowed myself that one setback until I get some things back in my head.

  I waited for the tears to come but instead I sit in silence. 

  And again, I begin to write.

Packing a life and mind

   Packing is in itself a weird thing to do. Half a day goes by and the majority of your life is either in boxes or in a trash bag. The finalization of the date brought about a mixture of emotions - I cried a lot both for what I'm leaving behind but also for the realisation that with some very few exceptions that's not really a lot. Three decades of a life in one place and what is left? A pile of diaries, some books and three people that will miss you. As I started saying my goodbyes I realised that by the time I come back even that handful of people might not be around to see my return. I will exist either in small parenthesis for them or through my absence, my inability to be present. 

  "Sorry I wasn't there," the text wrote and I looked at the screen and it made me sad even further for when could he be present really? I realised I was angry at being sad, I am admittedly growing more and needy of his presence. Or perhaps I realise that that it's not quite enough as I want in my life. I think of my self as a luke-warm person but the more time passes I understand that I'm more "my way or the high way": whenever I try to be ok with the lukewarm thing that exists in the middle it's usually not nearly enough. I feel lonely enough by myself, there's no need for the supplement of other people.

  I might sound unreasonable: in fact I do realise all the things that are going on in the lives of others and too often I use them as the excuse for not getting what I want. The trouble is that I'm neither getting what I want nor making my peace with it, instead going back and forwards between two emotions, feeling guilty and anxious at all times. The problem does not lie with the people themselves, it lies withing me: there used to be people and things here that were important enough to make it easier to stay. At some point those things became so few that I chose to go because they were not fulfilling enough: I feel guilty for leave the few good behind but they can not make up for the mental struggle of this place.

  And I feel the same for many of my relationships: guilty that I do not feel fulfilled by them enough when in truth some times a situation is not enough to fulfill us. How do you know when to stick it out? Knowing I am not great at communication makes everything feel even more like my fault. To control one's own mind is the greatest asset but rather than control I strive to understand. I want to be absolute sure when I say that something is not enough and also that something is, in fact, enough, that it's not "settling".

  I always longed to be free from the restraints of my mind and this new move seems to be challenging what is and is not a restraint. I'm not living the kind of life I wished nor have I grown into the person I wanted - but perhaps this restraint can be the changing factor of what and where and I do things.

  I am unsure.

  I have cried and whined a lot these days - enough that I am tired of my own voice. I have also managed to push myself enough to go out some more, perhaps seize the day here while there is a day still to be seized. I am lost within my head and I write very little - a bad sign always, writing and working with my hands is what keeps me sane. I am scared. Scared of all the things I am likely to fail to do, all the situations I fear I will get stuck into.

  I don't know if I'm changing or not.

  I have been smoking a bit these days.

Past for future

   I don't write all this much these days - the space in my house is crammed and so is my schedule and, to be honest, so is my head. Everything is brimming with things all the time: they are like bubbles, in their enclosure there's almost always just air but when they're present it seems impossible, unimaginable even to try to remove them. 

  Departure looms like a ghost over everything and there's not much to be done about it - the race against time was there before hand but now you can trick your mind that you see a finish line. It's a sensation I had buried in the past and though I welcome it back into my life I dread that I won't be able to handle it as well, 

  You should learn to leave for the right reasons - the first time I had attempted to leave it was in a very safe mode, planned out and stuff and in truth I was running away from myself. I was aware of this too. Now I'm running away from the mess I have made in this country (and the mess they made of me) and the country itself. There are bleak days ahead, staying here is like having a choke-hold around your mind. There are moments when you're used to it but often it drives you into despair.

  A friend briefly returning from abroad explains how flat her emotions are in her new home of a few years, how people here feel everything so much more, the sparks are more present here than there - perhaps it's due to our culture, so open among all things, and our tendency towards tragedy but also due to the fact that we are, after all, also children of this land: where you grow it never leaves you, every little thing has a different way in your mother-tongue. And there are things that you can not find as easily when you leave home.

  But the problem is, she says, that the same environment that presents her with an explosion of emotions almost always propels her into despair: all the people here are drowning, the conversations, as stimulating as they might be, at some point inevitably head south into bleak visions of present and future. Our land can give you some of the things that you desire: but more often than not you will pay a heavy price for them, your health and mental stability among the sacrificed. 

  I have been thinking a lot about the connection of space and memory and growth. In the future I would like to be able to work on the land that my grandfather worked on, to preserve something of the past. As my relatives perish one after the other, so does the memory of the family. There are stories that have never reached my ears that die out with every passing year.

  I have been thinking about it a lot as I am preparing to leave for a new country: by leaving I am sacrificing the chance to understand the past in order to build a semblance of a future. 

A week in the woods

   That entire week felt like being lost in the woods. That's how it was being around him - like exploring territory half-known that in reality I had no idea what was hiding in it among the trees. It was a new experience to be around someone like this and being free to touch them. It was new to sleep so deeply next to someone else.

  Yes, forest is the right word to describe what my life feels like in this period of time. I feel lost in the woods, sometimes I can't make out the stars in the sky. It's not just the man on whose side I slept. If only it were a one-dimensional thing. But the woods can spread either way around you, thick with greenery that shuts out the noise and sounds of beyond and soon you hear nothing else except for the sounds of the forest itself. 

  I feel like a spider, not in the ability to weave but rather in having many legs. One is placed firmly in the place I live at the moment, the other in the country I'm supposed to move to in a matter of days. For a job I hate in a country I dislike, all for the sake of buying out my freedom in a year from now. Or rather a shot at freedom. 

  There's another country, to the west, and in it there's a village, and in an old house on the outer side of the village lives a man and I both wish and dread being there with him. In my gut I know it's too early, I know we're not even ready for ourselves, let alone each other. 

  And there's a fourth country, I don't know which it is yet, but another where I could run away and be whoever whenever. In every place I feel a stranger, in passing, not quite material enough. I thought of woods and I figured perhaps, in a year from now, it would be nice to move to a quieter place for some time - for a few months, maybe a year. Not a vacation but a journey in a way.

  More than a week, I hate single weeks, they are never quite enough.

Like water and wind

 The smallest things can trigger the realisation of just how much you've changed: a meeting that in the past you would have thought would send you into a possible down-ward spiral, a business venture that proved to be a waste of time, an act that fell into nothing, a ticket bought. Instead you take a moment to acknowledge that things did not go as desired or that what you thought would in some way touch you and yet it didn't and that is alright too. You realise that you're moving further from the person that you used to be and that perhaps you're healing and that shows in unsuspecting moments. 

  You realise you're ready to go too. For the first time in perhaps ever, you're ready to drop it all and really go. Not to escape but because there's hardly anything worth your time here so much so that you will step back from moving on. I look at my body a lot these days. I follow its lines. I realise it's the only home I've really got. 

  I make a mental note to call my family often. I've become aware of our time being limited as the days go by. If we argue on the phone I wonder whether I would want that to be our last conversation. I call them back. I have a certain guilt towards them, the more I grow the more I become a ghost in their lives but that's because for years I became a ghost in my life too. Learning to be present in my life means ringing them up more often than I used to. It means showing them they're in my thoughts more than I used to express in the past.

  I have not given up on people though it is true that I have resigned from them. When they ring me up I enjoy their company though I seek it much less. I feel like I am getting to know myself in ways I did not know I would choose to in the past. Solitude is necessary for that and company is useful some times, in the right ways. It's difficult to place your boundaries and after a life-time of not honouring them now you have to do it in absolute ways that for some don't make any sense. That's alright too so long as you accept the consequences and make your choices and honour them too.

  At times you will feel shapeless like water or wind, but determined nonetheless, full of possible force. You will accept and come to admire that too. You will lose hope, spread yourself thin and gather your self back into one. 

  It's alright for that to happen many times too.