I’m pretty sure that I’ve shared “Amorphous” somewhere before, but I can’t remember where. I have a vague memory of me reading it to an audience. Maybe in 2013? 2014? I can’t say. It was also posted online, probably on one of my now-deleted personal blogs.
The despondent man left the kitchen and retreated to his room about an hour ago, leaving you where you stand now, on your own. You stand there, motionless, unaware of your own existence, in absurdity, and an hour has to pass before anything else happens. This hour is a thousand years, yet it does pass.
Now, you hear him squeal like a dying pig, but you’re not surprised; you remain unmoved, emotionally indifferent. You already know why he’s crying because you’ve spent the whole afternoon with him, while you were still a virgin, as he talked about his depression and his suppressed, sexual desires and you listened. You are no longer a virgin, but – you altruist you! –you couldn’t care less because for a moment you made him happy.
You are not what he truly desired.
You made things worse.
What is the meaning of death?
Some twenty or so minutes later (how many years?) the crying finally ceases. There is a moment of disquieting silence – you, in the kitchen; him, in his bedroom. After that, there is the predicted gunshot; you’ve seen it coming, haven’t you? You hear him fall to the ground, and there is something else that falls with him because you hear the sound of shattering glass. Was it the bedroom mirror? If not, what else is there that is made of glass in his old-fashioned bedroom?
Echoes of a Gunshot
And Breaking Glass
Oh, What a Blast!
That is the end of him.
But you are not going to see him dead.
You stay where you are, motionless, unable to move, in the kitchen, still absurdly still, Waiting for Godot, and another hour – has to pass – passes. This hour lasts for eternity. No, it has nothing to do with Einstein or his Theory of Relativity or anything of that sort, but those sixty damnable minutes, those three thousand and six hundred seconds – each second an eternity itself – was… really was… you’d swear – if you had a mother – on your mother’s grave that it was… hell!
But finally, it is midnight.
You start to think as if for the first time. So far, you’ve been merely trying to perceive your environment and what was happening to you, receiving information through your newly acquired senses, without much understanding. Now, you become inquisitive and therefore you start to speculate. There’s been death. Has there been rape? Nothing is clear. Who are you? Why is everything so abstract and absurd?
Mr. Antoine Roquentin,
Jazz gives me the Nausea.
There’s been magic, one would say, as you start to utter sounds – not words yet, just random sounds, but soon you’ll be able to speak. You need teeth, a tongue (of course!), and, most of all, you need lips.
A flute is being played in chromatic scale.
Don’t talk Jazz to me, Mr. Wood-Pipe!
Think some more.
Think like a scientist. Think like a philosopher. Quack like a fox.
Run like a duck, for all I care. But think.
“I think, therefore I am.” Descartes the Charlatan, the fake philosopher, misleadingly alleged.
“No!” yelled the ingenuous Roquentin, answering back, delivering the truth. “I do not think therefore I am a mustache!”
You start to wonder, and you wonder about that sound, the sound of breaking glass. You are jealous of it. What was it? The bedroom mirror? You don’t know, but you’re curious enough that you want to know, you really want to know, but first, you have to know yourself. So, if you sound like the shepherd’s flute but you’re not a flute, and if you’re jealous of the sound of something being shattered, what can you be? What are you, Sophia?
You are an empty bottle of wine standing meekly under the kitchen table, and I just gave you life.
You wait. You wait for nothing. You wait for what exactly? You wait until forever ends. At last, two eternities later, you decide that it’s time for you to go. You wish you can move from one place to another and I grant you that wish. All of a sudden, you grow hands and feet of flexible glass and for the first time in your life, you experience idyllic emotions. You start walking clumsily, like a toddler, out of the kitchen, into the hallway, towards the exit door. Freedom awaits you; heaven is on the other side. You are almost there.
But wait! Stop! Do not open the door. You will not go out. Please, dear bottle, my child, my creation, stop! Your story ends here.
Is there free will?
You don’t comply with the orders I give, and hence you keep going. You should have listened. Did you forget that I gave you life? Consequently, you trip and fall. You break and shatter as soon as you hit the ground. That is the end of you.
Only a sip of what was inside you still lurks in the despondent man’s glass, on the kitchen table. I am apt to drink it. For I am Godot! So I write that I close my eyes since all this is in my head, but I don’t actually close my eyes. I write that I find my way into the kitchen, pick up the glass, make a toast to who-knows-what, and take the final, remaining sip. That is all I need: a sip of imaginary, red wine.
It is the blood of the sacrifice.
Chevaliers de la table ronde,
Goûtons voir si le vin est bon;
Goûtons voir, oui, oui, oui,
Goûtons voir, non, non, non,
Goûtons voir si le vin est bon.
That’s what I call a ‘French Toast’.
The room is spinning.
But I’m not drunk, I swear.
It was only a sip.
It was the blood of the sacrifice.
The room is spinning.
Planet Earth is rotating around itself.
The sun rises from the east and sets in the west.
I am the center of the universe.
The room is spinning.
I remember things that never actually happened.
Sarah was never my girlfriend, and we did not make love on her sister’s bed. I have never seen her naked. She never told me that she loved me. I wasn’t the one who taught her how to drive. There was no car accident. She never died. And no, we never held hands.
The spinning is room.
Yes, is the spin rooming!
Where is Godot?
I’ve been waiting and waiting forever. Godot is late.
No, Godot is dead, because the bedroom mirror is shattered.
I was asked the following question by a morphologist who owned a candy shop:
“If I can make you tick and talk, does that make you a human clock?”
And my answer to his question was another question.
“Do you know a good place where they sell quality time?”
Then a kid walked in, browsing, sniffing sweets:
“Sir,” he says to me, shooting the third question in the atmosphere, “haven’t you had enough wine already?”
Now, that was it. I was perplexed. How did he know? Where did he come from?
I suddenly realized that something somewhere had gone wrong.
Literally, I found myself in the words I wrote.
So, now that I was aware of it, I spoke in sad poetry:
“I don’t expect the mass to read,
But if they do,
I know that only few
But to tell you the truth, I don’t know what I meant by that.