This afternoon I went to the airport to return a rental car. On my way to catch a cab back to work I somehow found myself at the international terminal departure gate. And then I remembered.

Four years ago exactly today. That was the day I stood in front of you at this very gate. We said goodbye, I turned around and walked away without looking back. I never saw you again. You went back to Bologna, back to your prestigious work at the world’s oldest university, and irrevocably out of my life. Over the years I received your messages, but they went into a void where they disintegrated as meteors entering the atmosphere, not because I held any grudges, but because you had ceased to exist as I had imagined you, as I had built you in my mind, created you, invented you. And speaking with the dead is a thankless task best left to psychics and quacks.

Melancholy can be sweet and so I let myself linger there for a little longer, eating bad airport food as I thought of all the women I had wronged, my disastrous decisions, my obliviousness, vowing feebly to myself that, if not to ever crash and burn spectacularly again, at least I would find newer, different mistakes to make. To make friends with the lies, especially that most insidious of lies which is the lie that needs not be told. Fail better, as Beckett kept admonishing. But can you really trust an Irishman who wrote in French?

I know for a fact that the same repeated mistake can result in completely different outcomes. It’s the outcome that matters. And with this final thought I realized the futility of examining my motives, my actions. There was nothing to be learned here, only cheap self-gratification, about the same measure of enlightenment one can get from drinking a sugary carbonated beverage. And so I got up and walked out of the terminal, back to my very non-illustrious job, into the foggy California sunshine.


7 comments so far

  1. Danilo on

    Fala Kiko,

    Caralho, impressionante a qualidade do seu texto…Dá pra confiar em brasileiro escrevendo em inglês? No 3º parágrafo apelei pro dicionário 4 x…Abs.


  2. Graciele on

    É verdade, né? 🙂

  3. Dr. Fiasco on

    Depois de 15 anos morando aqui, até eu tinha que acabar aprendendo a escrever na língua dos nativos, né? Valeu!

  4. mara liz on

    que bonito, me deu um nó na garganta até, paris deixa a gente assim, com a lágrima na ponta dos olhos! eu amo a califórnia, que bom que vc voltou pro sol! bisous

  5. ronas on

    Coor…. isso é inglês em Piracicaba.

  6. ronas on

    A pergunta que resta [estou em fase de perguntas restantes] é: esse texto faz parte do estranho, do bizarro, ou do sobrenatural?

  7. Dr. Fiasco on

    Hum… Nenhum dos três. Acho que desviei do tema desse blog por um momento. Em vez de estranho, bizarro ou sobrenatural, é só mais uma novela mexicana cheia de clichês de novela mexicana. A gente faz o que pode.

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