Despair(Adam El Chaar) Waiting to be discovered I escape reality into a jazzy café and sit down looking at a bum sitting in the far corner with a latent smile and hands in pockets and half-full, half-empty pint of beer on his table, looking at me and yawning, putting his hands behind his head and then disappearing to the toilet.

There are also two pairs. The one ahead of me is talking about Paris. There´s a one on my left, too. The guy just went to the toilet to piss his beer out. She lights a cigarette and takes a nervous look at me after I´ve stared at her for a few solid seconds.

Meanwhile, another pair comes in. The girl is a blond with nice breasts. I came to like blonds recently, don´t know why. I still like redheads, too, but they don´t knock me out anymore. But in general, I just like the girls that I like. I only like them when I like them and not when I don´t. It´s not as obvious as it seems. It´s like climbing a mountain. When you start, you´re fresh but in the middle you´re tired and want to give up. You must really be in love with the mountain to keep going.

Another pair walks in and the bum keeps staring at me. I take out my mobile phone and delete all numbers. These little things keep us stuck in the past, in the circles of dead relationships. "I´ve been down so goddamned long that it looks like up to me,“ Jim Morrison puts it.
The bum puts his head on his hand and keeps on studying me with his alcohol induced openness. He makes it impossible for me to think which creates space for the thoughts of yesterday. They´re annoyingly asking for their time to be contemplated in the stream of a moody accordion.

What do I want? It´s more like what I think I should want to make my life worth living. But what if I feel best just "watching the wheels going round and round“ as John Lennon puts it? Just celebrating every new born moment with an invisible smile? Any need to give it a shape just ruins it. Like trying to share it with someone. After a while that person just starts to steal my precious time and I pitifully have to leave though I hate to. Am I predestined to be alone?

The light from the ceiling reflects itself on the bum´s high forehead, his left leg crawling over the right one. His saint face is still and silent. He never drinks his beer. He looks at me again. When he´s looking I hate him and when he´s not I love him. I´m thinking about "now“ and "when“ it is.

When is now? It´s just me writing, listening to a guitar song, guy on the left talking, guy ahead talking, guy with the blond talking, bum going to the toilet and me writing again. Words growing under this amazing machine called a pen in my unique style of writing that a lot of psychiatrists would use to destroy the rest of my self-confidence. A game of light and shadow playing on the paper, men talking, beautiful bum back and staring. I can´t help feeling that all is wrong and should have happened otherwise.
I want a surprise. I want to win a bargain in my life like in a lottery or at least find some money in an old coat. Meet someone to change my life for I can´t do it myself. Get a mystical message. Get any message. Any proof that I exist. I want to control and be controlled. Look into the mirror of others without fear.

I don´t want anything but I need to want something. I have to want something. At the same time I don´t have to. Then I want to have to. I need dreams, otherwise it´s just a darkness for my eyes are closed.

The french music gets me flying. There´s a beautiful woman´s voice and familiar melody that invites me to rest on a cloud. I don´t want to go back down. So nice up here. Then the wind of elegant piano in the next song gets me back in nervous action. "The winds of change“ as The Scorpions put it. Life is a change. A change consists of the end and the begining. It´s happening all the time. I need a kick but "drugs don´t work“ as Richard Ashcroft puts it. I need a bloody big natural one.

Yesterday I saw an old friend. We don´t talk anymore. He was talking to somebody like he used to talk to me and he was laughing. It felt good. I realised I have no power or control on anybody. I´m all but powerful. It´s not weakness, it´s freedom. But then at night I had a dream that I´m in a war and I get this friend executed. It was a beautiful sunny day and I was wondering how I´m going to live with it.

What am I to the others and what are others to me? I only exist in others. There´s an endless amount of copies of myself out there. I come to existence by interacting and reacting with others, never knowing who may come next, who I will be. When in a relationship, there is a huge anxiety if I really am who I am with this person. Is there someone else who would make me more real?

One pair left and two came in. One of them sat close to me and isn´t talking at all. She´s a blond, watching me curiously. She looks clever and bitchy. He´s wearing a jeans kind of shirt and trousers and a black hat. They are really cool, jumping from ignorance of each other into a warm conversation. He has black shoes and a haircut like a geisha. He´s preocupied with his i-phone, drinking red wine. She´s wearing a brown leather jacket and a rich scarf, preocupied with her laté machiatto, eating its foam and stiring it up like unsatisfied girls do. He´s scratching his head and checking out on the tightness of his haircut and runing his thumb over the screen of his i-phone up and down, sipping from his wine. The bum is gone.

She´s trying to distract him, smiling and stiring. She´s ignored behind a curtain of coolness. She´s sad like me and the ignoring guy may be the saddest of us all, black and blue from his hat to the shoes, touching his forehead like a great thinker, then his lips like a free guy, then his beard like a bored guy, then his cheeks like a child, then his eyes like a tired guy, all his physique sinking into the earth, overcome by its gravitaion. He lays his right leg on a chair which I often do, too.

I probably just project myself into his character. A false me, something I think I am, was, will be. It´s my own torture chamber where I hate myself in a sophisticated net of corridors where the connection between pleasure and pain, love and hate, is hidden. My escape from boredom that I put into others. He takes a look at me over his shoulder. What does he see? His own projection? If we could get rid of it, we could just interact and react freely as the nature means us to and see what would come out of it.

The blond from before took a look at me, too, smiled and stretched her back which brought her pretty breasts to light. The other blond is looking bitterly at the geisha guy, then puts on a shiny smile, hiding her tired face behind a mysteriously induced happiness like big city people do because they have a lot going on in their lives and can hide to their grief.

He´s looking at his hat. They burst out with laughter. Maybe the dark matter of projection is a part of natural interaction. The blue guy orders another wine, gets a good mood and tells the waiter that her dogs are beautiful. He says it in a cartoonlike kind of voice. Then he goes and says Hi to the dogs.

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