The Pangs of MrT

The world is full of somebody else’s colours.

Everywhere I look, like painted. The smells, flashlights, diffracted sunrays, the games of strangers. The fresh grass, drinks and naps, intimacies and connivances. The long knit net of their affections, initiations, the game of strangers. Eyes glittering, candles and only half a face emerges from the darkness, familiar, welcoming. You can hear their voices from outside. You can hear them laugh. Every little intonation you can almost feel in the air, swallow one syllable at a time, let it quiver through your lungs. And then, again, the knot of tears.

There are silhouettes in the dunes. Kites. The sun is blinding. Some are alone, far away, cut out against the long blue emptiness of a sky. Unreachable, some call some other, casual, once twice, easy, the name, as if just saying yes or no. The sun is soft and warm. They run, some bare chested, some in panties, sparkling sand. Salt. Sun goes down. The shiver on their arms. On yours. Theirs, pleasure. The day goes on forever. Every hour, a new game for strangers.

Not for you. For the knot of tears.

MrT is an orphan. He is a man without a story. He is the man without the link.

Alas, I do not belong.

Soundtrack: "Fantasma Parastasie", Aidan Baker & Tim Hecker