Butterfly effect

It happens all the time in a same way...A simple glance, a simple touch, a simple smile and then something fly in your stomach...I've been told that they are butterflies from long time ago, when I was a little child...

When I was old enough to confront with my dad, my mom always used to tell me "Take the things as serious as their simplicity"...On that moment, definitely, I was upset for something; so I was shouting at her that she is not wise enough to understand the situation...she was (again for sure) leaving me and I was (100%) lighting a cigarette, smoking it in front of my window and swearing at every single, fucking simple thing in my world and sometimes in her world as well...

It was one of these days. The same conversation with my mom, but that time was with more flavour. I broke her heart and it happened as simple as breaking a plate while washing it. Based on my mom's logic, it should have been quite tough for her; and I've just discovered that it had been indeed...

Years have passed and non of us even remember this romantic story anymore and I am getting on quite well with my dad. It has became a part, a code of our past (sort of unconsciousness) as simple as forgetting the plate that you broke while washing it...But although it is forgotten, sometimes you might dream the plate in such an incredibly symbolic way that your psychotherapist can finally manage to find enough evidences to diagnose your deep Odip complex...

Meanwhile, I've heard again my mom's sentence and even more, I have told it to some rare people that I've loved; but it was something again in common...I've been told and I have told this sentence in a very simple, pure, genuine way that at least (let just talk about myself) I was so serious about telling it...

It was one of these days. The same conversation with a beloved one, and I was mature enough to tell it in its simplest way. I do remember it now cause I just broke a couple of glasses while washing the whole god-damn mess in this kitchen...

We have to make a cleaning router in this shit hole and allow smoking just in front of the window...

Words

The Eskimos live among ice all their lives but has no single word for ice. (Man: The first Million Years: By M.F. Ashley Montagu)

When I went to the bathroom, it was just after Andy's shower. The room was full of steam. I opened the window and cleaned the surface of the mirror by my towel. I looked at the mirror and see how my face was again blurred by the water vapors and remained nothing than a phrase in the mirror. A silver-covered frozen image of "That was me". I got scared because it was nobody in the mirror. Without an image in the mirror, who am I? Who do I look like? Am I acceptable? Am I right?

Another phrase came to my mind. I remembered again the most disgusting phrase that I've been told in my life: "I haven't..."

- No, I don't want it again. I can't bear it, I can't...

I cleaned the mirror again by the towel in my hand to see my lost image in the mirror. But it didn't work: no one was in in the mirror. Maybe the towel is not mine. What is mine? As far as I don't know who I am, nothing can belong to me. A towel without belongingness is not a towel anymore. Or let say if it is a towel, it is useless in the hands of nobody.

I looked around. The room was absolutely fogy, much more than before. I couldn't have seen anything. I was so scared. My heart bit was increasing. Everything was so white, like the eyes of a dead body. Actually my surrounding was nothing than white pathway, a mysterious way to ultimate darkness

- I need a mirror. I need a mirror...My voice vanished in the whiteness of the room.

I felt that I had died and I believed that I had done so.

- Mr. A., How are you? No problem. Everything is alright. We are here for help. We are just like a family here. You are like my brother. I told to Andy before. That's why he closed the window. Mr. A., I could have just heard your voice and I ran up because I thought my brother was in trouble... you were shouting. I know, I know. I should have also told you not to open the window. We are fixing the boiler in the garden. It was making too much steam… that's why I told Andy to close the window. Ha ha ha...But why did you shout? Ha? Too much studying? Mr A. even too much sex is not good for your health. But you are OK, Aren't you? Do you want a drink?...

He was continuing non stop and I was not hearing anymore. I hardly remembered the incident which seems to be so far in time-space coordinate. I remembered again that I was A. and I am going to be A. That's good news. But what was that image in the mirror? Who was that scary portrait of nothingness, a fading hope of existence?

I got up with a terrible headache. I looked at the mirror. There was no mirror. The floor was full of glassy particles.

- Oh, Mr. A. Your feet are bleeding. Hold on…Hold on...Andy, Andy...

Mr. Singh was shouting and jumping up and down.

I took a look to the drops of bloods coming out of my toes. The mirror was completely smashed and the frightening image was mixed with the drops of bloods on the floor. I had such a sweet pain in my toes. A crimson pain proving that I am still the one that I used to be: with the same towel, with the same housemates and the same landlord.

Now Mr. Singh is not here. He left and I gave him the rent one day earlier. The house is calm again and I am listening to Joy Division and thinking about the incident happened today.

"I have no escape from my past"...

[My feet are injured badly, but I don't need to go to hospital, not at all...]

"The past is the route to my future".

[Such a nightmare it was. Ah…But it passed, like all the nightmares. I am looking to my credit card. It is also proving that I am A. and I will be A. at least up to expiry date of this card]

"And now is just an illusion".

But unfortunately I have to pass it to realize...