Gilbert closed the door of his little apartment in Berlin. He takes off his wet snickers -it has been raining and he didn’t expect for it to rain- and took off his soaked T-shirt. Somewhere above him, he could hear the thunder, and even if he couldn’t see the lighting, he knew it was there, striking the sky with light. Gilbert was tired. And drunk. But he wasn’t drunk for that kind of reason. Not anymore. The days when he would be drink himself for fun are gone. Slowly, steadily, a bitter kind of pain has slipped into the whole ‘getting drunk’ thing. This sadness, this terrible sadness, the sadness of coming home to nobody, of clinging with his last powers to staying young, of trying with no avail to keep time from passing. People at parties are young now, fresh, new, full of live, fermenting with frenzy. They look at him, and there is a glittering in their eyes, they look at him funny, they judge, and there is a slight mockery in their eyes. Gilbert was now old, and they were all young, and they talked to him, but it wasn’t the same. The old people have disappeared, locked up in their houses, with their jobs and their lovers. All those maudlin love stories that he used to make fun of now turned to families, and Gilbert has no family. He never got too closed, never too attached, never too much time, never too much feeling spent. Girls came and went, all an amalgam of red lips and short skirts and cheap perfume. Gilbert opened the door to his bedroom. somewhere far away, a train was heard, full of people with their own stories and lives and melancholy. It was getting darker, it was getting late, and Gilbert was getting older. All was gone and all was lost, and now, now at the end, there was just beer and some slight wrinkles under the eyes. But he will go on. Cling with his teeth to time, to parties, never let go of the loud music that was getting unbearable and dance moves that were ‘so outdated’. Cling to tasteless beer and coming home in the morning, cling to puking in the taxi and old Tshirts. He will go on, breathing in the past to bring it into another, new day of the future.
2087
kaledo-art
areudirty
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