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Thursday, March 24, 2011


We put the chips on the bonnet of the pick-up truck. The heat from the engine kept it warmer, as we stood, leaned and ate. The air was cold, the oily potatoes were steamy hot. The sunshine and wind coming off the sea were bright and frozen. I leaned on the metal to feel more warmth.

She said, between bites, I have something in my pocket which I carry around. It is miniscule but it weighs a ton.

I said I have something I carry with me. It is tiny, vast and empty.

She said, I want to be happy. But it costs.

I said, everything costs.

She said, aren't we supposed to be having a conversation?

I had no reply.

When you can see through me I understand nothing anymore. How do people see through me so easily. When did you start seeing through me.

Do you feel dead inside, when you think about costs? Or do you feel urgent - a gaping hole yawning up to eat you from the inside of your heart? Do you dream of warmth or of pain? Is everything huge and great and unmoveable, as we cry ourselves to sleep, alone even though we are surrounded by people sprawled in the same room?

If you have something good in your hand, you want more of it. Sweets, tokens, love, success. But what if it isn't good. Desire, longing, ambition, thirst. Does thirst beget thirst?

We sat there on the bonnet of the truck with the oily chip paper, in the carpark on the cliff looking out to sea, wondering if the other person even understood what the one was saying.

You know, I said, without looking up, if you're thirsty and you drink saltwater you'll become dehydrated. And after a pause: you'll get thirstier.

If you drink it while you're still well-hydrated you can use it to survive, she said, looking straight ahead. Bombard. It quenches the thirst of the healthy.

It's weird to be really cold, and to be sitting on something really warm, I said.

She just kept looking away.