Losing all

                The town sleeps deep under the sunrise. At five O’clock only the seagulls wake up and start to argue about life’s meanings. The quarrel is very intense and it attracts morning drunks. They stare at the birds, amazed by the philosophical approach of the debate. Dull faces warmed by the sunny beams. Barefooted young girls drink cold beers on the fjord having problems in maintaining their balance. They laugh hard, they laugh falling apart into unknown arms. Heavy clouds appear in distance. Hands shake from overdosed substances. “There is no such thing as God” someone states behind a cold can of beer. The others are lost somewhere as far as possible from that place. They travel a bit just to come around when someone shouts. Tom is rolling a cigarette behind a corpulent young girl. She is helping out by sitting in the wind blow. Her name is Elisabeth. They just meet. She likes to drink while living. Someone takes and shares photos using Instagram. Michael likes this. He is sitting next to a girl named Rebecca. A lot of friends will like the photo where these two smile in the morning sun. Some of them will comment using smiley faces. Some of them are seagulls. Two times and then they pass it around. They don’t know each other yet. Blinded by the morning light they got together for an early meeting. With their fears hidden in sealed envelopes, waiting for the right one to whom they will send it too. They search. They explore unknown feelings, strange shaped bodies somewhere under unfolded sheets. Rather lonely individuals fired up by the strong alcoholic beverages consumed in the night. The universal catalyst was used in large amounts. Mouths full of saliva and ash, opened by particles of substance assimilated by the floating bodies, blended tongues and wet vaginas salute the sun. They are there on the fjord. Giggling at each other while hours pass by, they throw ideas worth nothing in discussions about the illusion of getting drunk.

                Dirty fancy clothes cover the body of Matilda. She is in her early 20’s. Deceptions dragged her in the bar for more than one night out with the girls. She kept mixing, experimenting, dreaming about another life. It is hard to keep her head up with all that money. All that drinking melts her thoughts into a pot of shattered dreams. Her shrunken lips touch the cold beer can for another dose of substance. Her red hair interfuses with the reddish sunrise. It all got twisted for her after she moved up north. The wind blew her hopes into the North Sea. The castle she built was made of sand and scraps which remained after a demolished relationship. It was her that sucked the life out of the poor guy. The poor guy that now is enjoying a lap dance in some strip club down in south. She was the girl with a mushroom tattoo and big earrings and blackened eyes that stared too much into the past. Confused she grabbed bottles from supermarket shelves into a continuous delirium fueled by alcohol and other damaging substances. This stupid search for happiness dragged her far from her initial desires. With pale brown eyes she watches Michael while he is showing Rebecca his appendicitis scar. A seagull passes by flapping its wings and shouting his prophecy at the ignorant souls. Matilda gathers herself from the stairs where she was sitting. The clouds disperse.

                I go after her along the fjord. The sun comforts my skin and I feel right. I’m also part of this morning’s behavior. I approach her with an erect thought of empathy. My body is full of love and a morning desire fueled by some alcohol and some smokes I had in the night. Nevertheless my image stands in the eyes of others as a quiet, good-hearted man. My flesh burns inside as if I cached a bad cold. A light wind blows her skirt, revealing a pair of well trained legs. She runs and cycles a lot as I found out later. Then she stops and turns around to look at her follower. She twitters something incomprehensible with a crystal voice that stopped my unfinished speech. I barely have the courage to smile at her sad face. Big eyes goggle through me for a couple of dilated seconds. My heart shakes while my penis kicks caged behind the zipper. A weird atmosphere induced by a damaging silence and a lack of communication. I start blabbering about life and its meaning only to realize I’m a 25 years old seagull. Which means that I past my life expectancy. She listens quietly, smoking her cigarette with thirst. My idea was to grab her weaknesses and pull until she pops out from there. But I see me, torturing my mind just to get somewhere with the conversation. I stop.

                Time passes almost hitting my skull like a bullet shot from a barrel of a gun. I leave in silence after we exchanged some meaningless words and numbers. Semicolon.

                I open one eye and see a room with black curtains. I’m not home. The sound of gurgling whiskey is still fresh in my ears. How many years have passed? I rise from where my rotten body dropped last night. Maybe a week went along with the others and I’m still thinking about my unsuccessful conversation. Some rats are trapped in my belly. I explore the apartment in search of a place where I can successfully throw my feces and some misconceptions I have about the world. I roam around the place for a little while until I bump into a 40 year old mother. She asks me if I’m Morgan’s new boyfriend. I hold down my surprise and tell her that I’m just a friend. I can’t remember her face. I try to do that but my mind sends me in different places. I ask for a bathroom and slowly move to the safe place. As I pass her she invites me in the kitchen after I finish my business.  I nod my head and disappear into the darkened lobby. A big hangover seems to take control of things. I piss in the sink while washing my teeth with the index finger. They have very bad tasting toothpaste. Who are these people I wonder. I spend 15 minutes on the toilet recovering strips of a hazy night. Foggy scenes pop from the darkness of a wet street. A promiscuous existence embraced by me and some morning individuals that I once meet. I wash my hands and my face and rub my nose with a clean towel. Better than home. The black liquid was poured in dotted mugs. Exactly what I need after...after I discovered that I’m home.

                I close my eyes but the black visions persevere. No escape from this dungeon in which I’m chained to the roof, enable to move my body into the desired directions. Suddenly madness kicks in and I start to rape my mind with images from a better life. I struggle to calm down by smoking half a pack of cigarettes and drinking chamomile tea. I guess that this could be an end. I strive to resist the temptations of abandoning this life. A necessary act which must be carried out by using a tool or maybe pills or I could just go out there. For sure I will find a place where I can rest my tired bones and mind. All those individuals I wonder if they ever existed. That morning mirage shattered by a seagull reality. Afternoons are trailers of a near end.

I know nothing. Full stop.