strange days: September 2007 Archives

his soul is dead; says dr m.

but that wasn't all. not that he didn't know any of it before, but reassurance never hurts. he tried his best to talk succinct, nothing wordy, although he did make sure he throws in the keywords. indifference, inevitable death, universal misery and innate miscommunication of mankind.

he's stuck on track two of thirteen, "once". it's pretty cheesy. too cheesy. right up his alley, and he's stuck. nice is the new deceitful, according to dr m. noone's nice, unless you're lying of course. everyone's just who he is. selfish lonely creatures scattered across planet zoo. "and when i'm a good dog they sometimes throw me a bone in." gods are brutal, but they're feeding us, so suck it up and live it.

track two restarts, only for the millionth time. she asked what he sees in the world, and if he ever stares at ants. of course she doesn't need to know that he counts the ants line on the edge of the tub every single morning to decide how many he could wash off into the drain that day. he says he sees perfect order in the whole and perfect chaos in details. she says ocean is significant and powerful and it's only made up of insignificant drops. he says he chooses to be the one that's left behind on the sand when the tide goes in, detached for good. cliche. corny. right up his alley, stuck on track two.

it's her voice probably, marketa irglova, suits the voice. she says indifference beats depression since the latter is a known phenomenon with a clear recovery path. indifference is the survival strategy of the selfless. when all one lives for is others, when self is suppressed, disappointed. she's right and wrong. he does live for others, yet his ego beats the ocean she's mesmerized with, which part of i-know-better-than-all-of-you-suckers signifies suppression?

or maybe it's the beat? or the scene from the movie? dr m believes his anima is suffocating him. she believes his dreams of we-all-know-who does not mean he wants her back, but that he hasn't let go. that he's in love with his anima and embodies it in the memory of this one woman who's walked him through the discovery. she's right probably. for one thing this explains the intimate shower sessions between his hands with the masculine member, it's not him, it's the horny anima.

last time he listened to one song so many times was probably first year of college, the all-nighters, indefinite whispering phone calls with this one tape of one song recorded over and over again in the background. whatever. towards the end dr m has one advice. cherish the dreams. she believes when the conscious persona gives up on life, the solution is in the subconscious. write down your dreams, she says. don't take them for face value, they're showing you what's holding you back. she asks if he believes in symbols. dr m does. he doesn't. he's lying like a dog.

thank you dr m, he thinks. he might never visit her again. dr m is a fine woman who thinks his soul is dead, that his status is worse than depression and that his self is suppressed with his anima running his show. she might be right, or might be wrong. dr m's words don't make any difference either. words are meaningless, expressionless. nothing matters, really, and the same song plays over and over and over again: if you want me, satisfy me.

the man without a woman has a dog he hates, a phone that never rings and an empty seat across his table. he's immersed in his book as he sucks on a straw in his tall glass of blended cantaloupe. if you see him you'd almost swear he's incredibly content. if you pass by him you'd almost believe he's enjoying his time. if you stare at him you'd also see him smile, a most subtle little twitch at the corner of his lips. but then you'd most likely never see him or pass by him and most definitely never ever stare at him. the man without a woman is invisible in your world; he lives in one of his own, a world without women.

the man without a woman is peaceful. he's in no rush. he's observant, patient and tolerant. if you talk to him you'll find he's articulate and friendly. he'll listen. if you trust him you'll be most comfortable sharing your deepest secrets with him. if you judge him he'll just smile and support your argument, never picks on you to get even. only that you won't talk to him. you'll never trust him and you wouldn't ever get to judge him. the man without a woman never talks to anyone. he has nothing to talk about.

the man without a woman is a decent man. he doesn't lie and never cheats. if you get to know him you'll revise your perceptions of the male specimen. if you learn about his past you'd feel most affectionate towards him. if you hear his stories you'll almost like him more than you've ever liked anyone in your life. of course you'll never get to know him, and no matter how much you try you'll never understand how he became the man without a woman. he's the ultimate stranger, a total alien, an element of his own.

the man without a woman is happy although you'll never know. he's got a story you'll never read. he's got a vision you can't begin to understand. he knows so much he needs not think. the man without a woman could be the king. could be god. could be anything; only he isn't. the man without a woman doesn't care. he's utterly indifferent.

nothing ever matters, nothing, to the man without a woman.