Part Five. The Final Sketch.
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“I’m never nostalgic”, he once said, “I live in a formless age – we have in hand what humankind has achieved up to this moment, why go back? It’s the age of all past knowledge, internet piracy, a mitigated status quo concerning racism and homophobia, timely condemnation to mass media – be it useless or ephemeral – and independent lesbian porn. Why the fuck go back?”
It’s the same age upon which we matured separately. While I was a tireless typist working to get my pocket money, he was unemployed. When I was anxious, frustrated and angry, he was at peace with himself and the world. His rasion d’etre was, so to speak, directed inwardly. The concept of success and failure, power and kindness, past and future, courage and cowardice, etc. formulated discrepancies; for him they were explored from a classic perspective one would expect when talking to an uneducated humanist. We both lacked intelligence, but for him it was compensated with peace. The impotence he felt all his life turned him neither into a stoic everyman nor to a cynical son of a bitch. A state of anger only transpired, slightly, a year before he died. He was a heavy drinker all the year. He implored me to record anything he would say while drunk and make him hear it the next day. I’d always hated games but this was harmless so I played along. He said nothing. If ever he had anything to say, he was doomed to keep it to himself.
You would think of the Apocalypse as a special event in the galaxy – “I’ve heard the Earth is coming to an end tonight. Come to my place we’ll watch it together” (A distant fragment of a conversation from a distant planet?) – But then the war started. All of those un-obscure objects of desire that once furnished our days crumbled into a crass state of being. Wishes that never amount to what we might consider complaints, ranging from the simple need of exploring one’s potentials and having the space to change and discover, again, oneself and the world.
War didn’t change us - it was vomiting inhibited autobiographies, with chapters unfinished, substance waning, and, oh, those unusual correspondences in watery Nows, found Saad as he always had been, watching movies and masterfully regulating his circadian clock.
And then he died.