Inga Abele - High Tide

“Yeah. That was a long time ago.”

“But we were talking about how I’m outside myself.”

“So talk.”

“I used to be very much inside myself. Inseparable. I was one with my actions.”

“Remember that time you slit your wrists?”

“I do. It was pretty bad.”

“Pretty bad? That’s putting it mildly — it was horrifying. It was pouring that night and the water blacked out the windows, the streetlights, and the roads. Mom brought you to the hospital… It was a nightmare.”

“I was completely inside myself then. But now it’s even worse.”

“What’s worse than a car full of blood?”

“There are things. Trust me.”

“Like?”

“Like… I’m not sure how to explain it.”

“Try putting it simply.”

“There’s nothing simple about it.”

“Then try details.”

“Details… So you know what it’s like right before it rains?”

“Like now?”

“Like now. And hear that bird cry? We’re in the city but we can still hear it. A rainbird. The trees are rustling, the treetops shifting. You don’t want to touch anything because it’s all sort of muggy. Painful.”

“Right, so anyway! Now you’re talking about the weather and some bird, but you wanted to talk about you.”

“But it’s all the same. It’s about that feeling, some kind of out-of-body feeling.”

“Experience — the right word is experience.”

“I don’t care which one’s right.”

“Then you risk saying what you don’t mean.”

“I often wonder if it’s even possible for others to understand.”

“Explain.”

“See, it’s as if I’m always somewhere outside myself. Watching myself from the sidelines. Take love, for example. Watch how love takes over your body. It kisses, hugs, makes others happy, makes them sad. Your body changes shape, you’ll have a kid, then more kids, or maybe none at all. You’ll have a home somewhere, warm nights under a melting sky. Arguments, fear, gentleness. But none of it happens to you — it happens to a body you call yourself. The body you’re watching from the sidelines.”

“You’re sick.”

“Maybe, yeah.”

“Your forehead’s hot.”

“It’s always hot.”

“So what are you saying — that even now, while we’re talking, you’re… So that’s why you’re looking at me so sadly? I noticed that strange look in your eyes a long time ago.”

“And you’re not worried?”

“I thought it was like the calm before the storm. I’m not sure if I should be worried or not. Maybe I should be.”

“How do I look? Describe it!”

“Like… Like you’re trying to absorb everything around you… Through your eyes. Yeah, like you’re trying to come back, into one piece. It’s in your eyes. Like you need to anchor yourself to something. That’s what you look like — like despair.”

“And there you have it.”

“Maybe you need to see a doctor.”

“What for?”

“Because you feel split in two, even around me.”

“Split in two! My god, don’t be ridiculous!”

“What? You’re the one who said you were split in two.”

“I never said that, Pāvils! You weren’t listening.”

“Sorry, but—”

“I’m not split in two! I’m outside of myself, alright? Outside myself. It’s not so bad when I’m talking with someone. When I’m talking with someone it’s always… detached.”

“What do you mean?”

“When two or more people are talking, they contemplate, speak, discuss. They’re someplace slightly outside themselves. Like in a shroud of thoughts. People tend to use phrases like ‘Remember when…!’ or ‘Next summer I’d like to go to…’ They converse. They’re detached, see? They’re back in that memory, or they’re in next summer. You can see it in their eyes, or how they twirl their hair around their finger as they daydream. They’re traveling. They’re outside themselves and there’s nothing strange about it.”

“I’ll be honest — it gets harder and harder to talk to you as the years go on. You make people uncomfortable. For example — no, don’t get offended — but I even feel uncomfortable talking to you. The look in your eyes is so tense. So heavy. You’re wrong, you know. When you and I talk, I tell myself life isn’t like that. Life is about life, not useless and continual concentration. It’s bad to be so serious! Why do you want so badly to get back into your eyes when talking to me?”

“Because I can’t anymore.”

“Can’t what?”

“Get back inside myself. When we’re done talking, Laura will toddle over with a ball and say ‘Daddy, let’s play!’”

“And I’ll go.”

“And you’ll go and you’ll be you — Pāvils. Pāvils who’s kicking a ball, who’s Laura’s father, who loves Vita, who’s writing his doctorate.”

“And you?”

“I’ll wait somewhere far outside myself, until everything calms down.”

“You’re afraid of responsibility.”

“Oh fantastic! What else — any more genius insight?”

“Well what do you want me to say?”

“Did I ask you to say anything in the first place?”

“If we’re having a conversation I have to say something.”

“Oh please. The problem is you don’t believe me.”

“It’s not a matter of believing or not. It just comes off sounding stupid. And even offensive.”

“Offensive how? Are you offended? If you are I’m sorry, I’ve never wanted to offend you.”

“But you did. And in a really strange way, too. Everyone is inside themselves, in their bodies, but you, you’re outside yourself. Like you’re a princess, something special. It’s terrible. And so weird — like Pulp Fiction or something.”

“I didn’t mean for it to sound like that. But you’re right to say it, thanks.”

“So now I’m capable of saying something right after all!”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not! Did I say something wrong? The way I see it, you have to live free and easy, in a single breath. And if you’re having thoughts like these there’s a glitch in your system. Something’s gone wrong. I don’t get you.”

“Fine, you don’t get me. I can’t force you to understand if you don’t have the capacity to in the first place.”

“So, what will you do?”

“Well finally! The king of questions! What will you do? Amazing! Think about these words. What. Will. You. Do. They’re like the salt of the earth, but at the same time so simple.”

“Hey, don’t overanalyze everything — be it breathing or language. It’s not productive, it’s an obstacle. It was a serious question, pragmatic and realistic — what will you do? Are you going to pine away like this forever?”

“But hold up, these words! Listen— what will you do? In that specific order, with that hierarchy, and not the other way around. Not what do you will ? The will always comes first and the doing always follows. If you look at it the right way, you could pave paths to a better world.”

“Great. And what kind of world do you want to discover? One without pain?”

“When Monta was little, her favorite story was about the Golden City. In the Golden City, wolves and sheep are friends. The Golden City doesn’t need night to understand what day is. It doesn’t need death to value life. It’s a world without contrast. You know, Monta almost had me convinced. ‘You’re sad,’ she told me. And I knew then that she’d be perfectly willing to trade knowledge for ignorance if only she could be in a world without pain.”

“Without joy and hate? Without sorrow and passion, without desire?”

“That would be a boring place, bored-to-death boring… and useless. I said this to her. She argued with me that death is something grown-ups invented so they wouldn’t be bored. Grown-ups are sad, grown-ups do all kinds of stupid things just so they can understand something.”