#cetr

Cetrion was invited by @LeoKahnum for Kombat Gala

i was about to finish the article, i’ve been writing for my french friend, who likes to call himself ‘terrorist’. he has this blog about ‘how can we make the end of the days come sooner’. from time to time i write some articles for his blog with a fake colombian name. 

when i heard knocks on my door. strong but calm knocks. it didn’t ring any bell in my head about who could it be. i looked around through my window and saw a girl with a huge raincoat and a fedora. it was suzanna. 

she came with bunch of keys and directly walked to the locked door. i stopped her and started giving a speech about respecting each others’ privacy and others’. she didn’t care at all. she was so sure that we had to see the room. i, on the other hand, didn’t have any wonder about the room. i was so sure that it’s just some old clothes and furnitures. i was seeing the attraction in the unlocking a locked door though. it’s like a red button says ‘do not press’, it’s a lost luggage at the train station, it’s an empty pool in november, it’s the diary of your former lover… 

she tricked me to the bedroom and we started making out. then she tied me up to my bed and let me enjoy her dance. i was so sure that she was going to try the keys in a second. she didn’t. at least not until we were done with touching each others’ undiscovered, arousing places. then she left me tied and satisfied in the bed and turned on the radio. either she didn’t want me to get bored, since i was alone in the bed or she didn’t want neighbors to hear the noises, she was about to make. or both. 

so, i was listening to some reggae songs and hearing her attempts of trying to find the right old key. i don’t even know where could she find all those keys. nobody produces them anymore i think. it exactly went the way i hoped for and she failed and came back to bed. she had the face of a kid who wants to grow up as soon as possible so she will be able to do what she wants. -classic myth about being an adult.- i was smiling like an older brother who knows the way but will never show it. she punched me in the face and turned the volume up. that was the sign of our next lust session. 

“you seem perfectly calm for a writer. i always assumed your kind as insane, impatient and excited people. given the fact, you are the only writer i know, i may be mistaken” she was searching through possible ways to bring the conversation about the room. “I’m all those things you said. i just don’t care at all about what could be in that room. that’s all!” she rushed out of the bed saying “how come?!” then she went to the living room to bring the tobacco and papers. we were out of cigarettes. she rolled and lit the cigarette and was about to start another conversation when i cut, “i am so glad you are smoking too!” she smiled. she knew what i meant. all the smokers would know what i meant. all the non-smokers could never understand it. 

“tell me about your first time?” she asked. “i don’t remember much but i am sure pretty much same as everyone. i born, i cried and they rolled me in some sheets and gave me to my mom” she wasn’t smiling this time. “here we go with the stupid jokes!” she wasn’t happy, the way i distracted her conversation. “come on! we are in bed, we are naked. this is the one and only perfect time for stupid jokes!” she kept her silence, so had to give her the real answer but i didn’t want to. “it’s gonna kill all the attraction we have” i said. “it can’t be that bad” she replied. “it’s not bad at all. it’s a great story or at least i developed it into a great story in time but it’s not about that. getting to know each other better is the time-ticking bombs of relationships. let’s keep the misery on, so the heat will stay on” she laughed this time. “we are not in a relationship, we are just fucking once in a while.” i don’t know why but i felt the need to be mean “why are you still here then?” she left the apartment even before getting properly dressed. now i could go back to my writing.

“in one of those villages where life gets slower than it can, i’ve met an old wise guy. a real one. everybody was calling him ‘lunatic’ and as always it’s a good sign. he was drawing some weird shapes to the walls of a cave on the hills. i greeted him and started singing to hear the echo of my own terrible voice. he smiled and kept doing what he was doing. he had a white scarf around his neck at that hot summer time and a wool sweater. the second i thought he cannot get more interesting than this, he did. he poured down some liquids on the drawings and then covered them with some muddy soil. once he was done with his thing, he started speaking with a trembling, strong voice. his voice was reminding tom waits to me. “those young archeologist-wannabe idiot students and their poisonous teachers are coming to this village every summer to research and study some old artifacts, drawings etc. i am misleading them and wasting their time. so the information will stay safe” that was an explanation that i could never get, by asking. i already loved the guy. then he asked me the language, i was singing. “pontic greek” i said. “what the fuck is that?” he asked and without waiting for an answer “let’s go and have some tea, there you can tell me all the lies, they have been teaching you” 

we went to his house and he put some more wood in the fireplace. then he passed me a book. it was khalil ghibran’s madman. i’ve just said “those who understand us, enslave something in us” i was feeling lucky and proud to be able to quote from the book before opening it. he was quite unpredictable for my urban, smart-ass braggings. he said “open the book” there was a little bit of weed between the pages. i started rolling our first joint and decided not to speak unless i have to. i didn’t want to get embarrassed anymore. 

he brought the teas and a chess board. i didn’t know how to play chess but i didn’t say it, in case the chess board was for something else as well. he asked me why i was there in that town. i told him that i was a writer without a subject to write and i was hoping to find something on the road. he didn’t judge me at all. he advised me to “steal” then he added “steal and paint with your own color! that’s what everyone does. there is no original story, nor ever has been.” he paused to stand up and to walk to the window and said “how many times you have seen this in a film or read in a book. this. this scene. someone stops talking and goes to the window to finish his sentence. does it seem real to you? why would anyone do that? and more terribly, why would anyone think it’s worthwhile to write about? Look at all these books, there isn’t anyone that i didn’t touch! it may sound like, i’ve read them all, that’s what a writer does. i didn’t read most of them. i couldn’t. they were talking about things that no-one needs to know. so… if you want to steal people’s money and waste everything else, write! since all you can do in this life is to steal in a way that your conscience would not mind; steal and live! writing is only for the ones who could not live!”