Strawberry Moon - Between Violence and Love

This is a story about a girl who rarely got out of bed. Her room was painted red, and her lamps were shinning red. She smoke a lot of weed, and last night she had a dream in which her dad gave her some weed and money. She used to be a smart kid, a very smart and talented kid with a bright future. Not exactly bright, but she had a lot of potential. She had concentration and she was isolated enough to believe she was special. You have to believe you’re special if you ever hope to achieve anything. She had very specific dreams about her life, she wanted to be an artist living a hedonistic life with her artistic boyfriend. All her childhood dreams are realized. She is now a young adult who believes she’s too old to change her dreams. You know, it turned out you really have to be careful what you wish for. Now she wants to be torn apart, and she doesn’t even care by what. She met death, and is now scared senseless. She likes magic, and she likes writing in foreign languages. Distance.

Often, she cries. In general, she loves expelling from her body, be it in form of tears, vomit, blood or words. She likes to push her limits. She likes to push her limits by pushing the limits of other people. Namely, her boyfriend. When she was a child, she imagined Him as a tall, green eyed director of slow films. He would have wavy hair and an intriguing smile. He would be mysterious, but he would trust her. He couldn’t live without her. What she realized is that men can, i fact, live without women. More so than women can without men. Their guitar, their stories, their lines, they would always be more important than her. Maybe she wasn’t enough, or maybe she was too much. In her mind, she only existed in relation to a man. She defined herself the way he defined her.

Last night was the full moon. It wasn’t very impressive by the dark, although the night was very light. She saw it rising in the sky, the pink sky. Strawberry moon above the city fallen under hot dust of Africa. It’s hard to take your eyes off of it. It also appears to be very hard not to be violent when such clear manifestations of cosmos are visible.

They were watching a TV show before sleep. They had seen it before, but needed something to put them to sleep. She had grown tired of iPod games, and he had grown tired of music software that produce music so fake, however well you compose it, it’s not enough. She spent a pleasant day – she worked and accomplished some things she hadn’t in a long time. She cleaned his apartment, because that makes him happy, and it makes her happy, and she wants to be thankful. She’s not quite sure what he had done, but apparently he learned how to transfer from old films to digital. He worked on a script with a friend. Or was that yesterday?

It was a good day, so much so she had been a little surprised. At some point, she may have wanted to cry, but it wasn’t very clear. Police and ambulance sirens were very loud.

She likes living with him more than she likes living alone, and that’s confusing to her, and apparently, scary for him. A few days ago, he had told her he didn’t want to live with her. It’s hard not to take that personally.

She imagined him sitting with some other girl in summer heat, her breasts slightly showing under her dress, and she imagined how his cock must have gotten hard from all that nuance. She was walking around his apartment completely naked, but what’s new, what’s hidden, where’s the desire. She knows you don’t want things you can have.

She can be whatever you want her to be, but please, pick something interesting for her to play. In his life, she feels like an extra without specific directions. Or like some old, familiar actress face, called in that film because the director knows what to expect from her, and the things he gets are more or less what he wants. He’s not particularly bothered to tell her what he wants, and she would do anything to keep her part.

He doesn’t like when an ashtray is full. He doesn’t like his smoking. He doesn’t like the way some people behave. Yet the ashtray is full of his own butts, and he doesn’t say anything to anyone. Such a nice boy, it’s almost nauseating. Is it weakness if you believe the world can be a nice, comfortable place for you to enjoy it slowly and moderately?

These days, she feels like a hairy fried potato. The summer has started, and it didn’t deliver what she thought it promised.

During the second episode, he turned his back and fell asleep. He falls asleep really fast. He doesn’t need to kiss her before he falls asleep. He’s so comfortable with her that he can casually turn his back. To him, the act doesn’t mean anything. More than that – it’s nothing.

In a split second, the moon was red and he got up. He said: What’s wrong with you? He looked at her with disgust. Her fist hurt a little, his back hurt more.

In the morning, she asked: Do I have to hit you to get a goodnight kiss?

She cried.

He bought her raspberries.

She never knew when to leave.

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