Carolyne's Diary


I can't imagine living the life of a dreamer. I don't dream: I can't dream: I don't even sleep that often. In my sleep I sleep: In my sleep I don't dream.

I'm not like those people who are now sleeping and dreaming in their dark rooms; like that cat under the car; like the sun that is rolling around under the sheets of night; like Azriq who is in my room: he is sleeping and not sleeping; he is dreaming and not dreaming; he is himself and not himself; he is Azriq and not Azriq - he tries to be others but he can't even when he dreams, even when he doesn't dream: he is too much he, he is too much 'I', but less 'they,' but less others, but less life. He says I am him and he is me. I would laugh at his exclamation, or puff cigarette smoke into his face - I like to see him cough - or pinch his ear, or poke his eyes, or slap him hard on the face, or throw some bitchy words at him which I know will hurt him, which I know will make him cry, which I know will make him hate me. Fuck, what do I care! He is just a toy - perhaps my favorite - that I play and torture as my whims desire. I want him to hate me and I want him to love me: I want him to cling to me and I want him to ignore me: I on the other hand don't feel a fucking thing: I want and don't want at the same time: I desire and not desire at the same time: I love and not love at the same time: I'm simply empty.

Like this cup of green tea I'll be finishing.

Like the dark sky above me.

Like the lily pond in this garden.

Like the little heron toys on the edge of the pond.

Like the face of Azriq.

Like the face I see in mirror. Believe me, nothing is fucking worst than staring into the face of god since there is nothing to see in a mirror. Only my emptiness, only my sins, only my-god.

As I'm thinking and being empty, I hear Azriq groaning in my room. The wimp! He is thinking about her, he is waiting for her, he is dreaming her - that's all he is: a dreamer: he loves a love that cannot be love: he dreams a dream that cannot be dream because nothing in this life, even love, can be dreamed - there is only the ambivalence of desire and undesire.

Oh shit! I'm out of tea.

Let me dream of drinking one then. If I can, that is, to be a wimpy dreamer of life.

The sound of his groaning comes back.

"Shut up will you!"

He does not say anything. Perhaps he is crying. Damm! I better get out before he does. I'm not in the mood for another of his soap opera moment.

"Lock the door. I'm going out for a smoke."

After I've got in the elevator, I hear the hard slam of my apartment door.


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