memories. hotel in paris, nightfall. december, rain outside.

and out of the blue i stepped on something i didn't remember any more. memory, like god, works in mysterious ways. it is as if that memory was burned, and vanished from my mind altogether. but now i remember - i remembered it all when my hand suddenly picked up that sheet of paper with something written with black ink. black ink, as black as the night that was falling back then. as black as the darkness i was drowning into.

december. night was falling. i think it was raining outside, but i can't remember that well. i was in the outskirts of paris. alone. alone during the flight, and after the company's driver dropped me at the hotel, i was alone again. it was late, too late to go out and find a restaurant where i could have dinner. left my bag in the room and went downstairs, to the hotel's bar - hoping for a sandwich, a couple of beers, some cigarrettes. my notebook and my pen went with me. and i wrote.

i wrote because i couldn't talk. there was no one there to talk to. no one there to listen to me. other than me, only the bartender, two german businessmen around a laptop and an old english couple drinking tonic gin. eventually they all left, as expected. on the telly, some crappy french rerun. and i was there, alone with my beer, a sheet of paper and black ink.

and i remember. i remember how i quietly cried out for someone, knowing that no one could reach me. never in my life i wanted so much to have company, to be with someone, not to be alone. i couldn't cry. i can't even cry, bloody wretch of a human being that i am. so i poured it all on the paper with black ink. on and on it went. hatred, rage, despair, loneliness. dry tears written on paper, for there were no eyes that could cry them.

and today i found that sheet again. today i've read it again - and i felt it all again. and i understood why i had apparently forgotten it. it never really went away. i never really let it go. i cried over the paper, and the paper gave those tears back to me. and today, when i picked it up, everything came back. everything.

a fair bunch of things i note down - thoughts, memories, word-shaped mementos - is translated to the blog, sometimes a lot of time after they were written. but not this time. i dare not doing it. it is too strong, too painful. and too true to be codified, too real for me to mask it with metaphors and images. no, it can never be told. somethings must never be told.