The morning and God

To Roy Shmaryahu

A certain morning I woke up, it wasn't a strange day actually.... just one of those days you've been told about in stories, in all kind of stories, love stories, thrillers and even in meaningless stories. I woke up in a hotel room, lousy morning, cups of coffee, nicotine, telephones. Somehow in its lack of particularity it might have been the first morning to which I matter-of-factly woke up. I didn't find myself strange or extremely kind, neither devoid of violence or embroidered. Practically efficient, uninfatuated, shaved, drunk up, thought-of. Beyond that it wasn't weird waking up such morning, I woke up to old friends, to old stories, to old roots, to odd roots. Nothing could have been particular about such morning, for there were others in which I woke up to different things and to particularly evident reasons, to different battles and endless boxes of thoughts, to love songs, to sad songs, to unwritten songs, to odes. I could have even woken up to friends, to lovers and to disdainful remarks excerpted delicately from a careful conversation, from a stranger, from a letter that was never written, from a conversation with the wise, with the poor, with the smart, with the dumb, or simply with no one else but myself and my own inner desire for daily redemption, for justification, for something that matters beyond my addictions and TV-made procrastinations, beyond the news, beyond a future that was never lived.

That morning was so different, for I didn't wake up to any particular reason and to any particular person and I didn't dream anything profetic, I didn't understand anything better about life, I didn't change, I didn't wear, I didn't predict, I didn't unwind. The air found me unthinkable and I found the smoke unnecessary, yet both of us didn't delay our continued encounters all through the minutes and the hours that mercilessly decorate the days. It wasn't any philosophical and wouldn't allegedly change the course of history; it wouldn't be a morning of gods and statemen, a morning of interpretations. It would rather be the best morning my life awoke to; a morning of friends and silly faces, a morning of sugarless coffee and laughs, a morning of meanings, unspoken of. A morning of childish friendships that soon would be over, a morning of unwelcoming pleasures and simple cakes. A morning of endless brotherhood and simple conversations, it was.... a morning.

And with all its smells and people, no longer dwells among us... for we've returned, or better say we've been returned; and probably sooner than one can count will have forgotten the names and the faces and the echoes of those souls that wandered together throughout the winter cold of Jerusalem moons. So full of hate, so full of hatred, so full of ego, so simply and basically humans. But it was beautiful to wake up one day, one morning.... to be oneself.

But above all, twenty-one years and 3 boxes of cigarettes and an imaginary friendship were necessary to talk to God, to realize he exists and that there's a bit of him about everywhere. To think life again once more and then get some rest, to dream about the future and build a better world, to imagine that we're more than this flesh and this oversexualized nature, that we're more than casual sex, that we're more than our salaries, that we're not a career or a diploma on a wall, that we're more than wallets and credit cards, that we're people and that life doesn't end up in life. That one must be good and do good to anothers, respect the others and fulfill a life. That a career builds up for the rain, but a human being builds even the rain.

It was great to feel someone, to feel oneself being such.

The days keep on running and we keep on counting, but that's not what really matters. What matters is that we don't really know anything, and that still everything can be just so beautiful, that friendship can be so real, that promises can be kept, and that we can talk to God. There's always a way, there's always a second time. I guess that for the first time in many years I'm quite complete, being so damn uncomplete, and I'm happy being so damn unkind. But I can always remember, I can always return, I can always smile. Maybe tomorrow or some other day all this will just turn real.