"Destroy to open," read the instructions to my newly acquired vinyl by Marilyn Manson. The instructions were clear, yet I grew confused by the minute. I, an avid collector or music, didn't want to destroy the latest addition to my collection. I wanted to preserve the black paper wrapper, forever. But at the same time, I wanted to tear it open and play the shit out of it on my turntable. As loud as my eardrums could bear. As loud as I could to make it all go away, just for 4 minutes.
I stood in my living room with the lp in my hands, tightly holding on to that moment, unable to decide whether I should go ahead with its destiny and play it, or just keep it in limbo for God knows how many days before temptation finally made me give in.
I think I was always the collecting type. Even if it was cards or the occasional toy that came in a chocolate egg, I would keep them and place them carefully, displayed for everyone to see, but most importantly, for me to know that I had them. I possessed them. They were mine.
I remember my mother telling me once, that I should take good care of my things, "Maybe, one day you will end up having a collection."
It is kind of funny now, to hear her words echoing in my head. I have unknowingly curated a vast collection of memories, music, stories, tears, and successes.
I had wasted years treasuring pain and hatred. Hoping one day to change and let love in. Replace the darkness with the divine. And as I rode the trams through the city, trying to get home, I realized I had also collected the faces of all the people I had ever encountered.
And with their paralyzed facial expression imprinted in my mind, I made up stories I would never share with anyone. I made up stories and I would keep them to myself. I made up stories and collect them.
Like that one night of January 2012 when I was going home. It was cold and my phalanges hurt like hell. I put my phone in my pocket and commenced to blow hot air from my lungs onto my frozen limbs. Rubbing them gently to facilitate the blood flow and luckily, get rid of the ache of winter.
The tram made its stop and the doors opened. A 25-year-old looking guy got on and sat across from me. I had always liked to go to the very back of the streetcar, and from there, protect my belongings from pickpockets, and have a nice view from the people traveling with me. People-watching was something I had added to my favorite-things-to-do-list.
This guy looked like he was in love. It was a bit obvious as he was carrying a bouquet of some kind of flowers that was wrapped up in cheap brown paper. He looked nervous but he had gone the extra mile by washing his sneakers. That, or he had used them for the first time that night. I couldn't make out whether he was wearing any cologne, as in 2012, normal guys using public transport weren't known for sporting anything additional to their normal everyday clothes.
He was holding the flowers in such a way not to damage them, even though they were already dead, or dying. His eyes were fixed on the night. And his legs were crooked as if that uncomfortable position would keep the blossoming bouquet alive.
I held my hands together once again and blew hot air. This time the pain has almost gone away. I blew onto my hands one more time. Warmth never hurt anyone.
The streetcar stopped once again. And the doors opened. Letting a cold windchill in. Was I wasting my hot breath in vain?.
I looked again at the guy with the flowers. He gazed outside through the open tram doors. He didn't look like he was nervous anymore. He looked like he was second-guessing. His clean-shaven jaw was obviously tense. I couldn't read him anymore. His winter-dry lips tightened. He looked cold and uncaring for a second. Had he cheated on his girlfriend? had he done something wrong?. His eyes weren't focusing on the night anymore. The doors shut. And he moved his head up towards the back of the tram. Our eyes locked just for a second.
I knew then, that he was sad. And as the streetcar headed away from the center, I knew that I had imagined the wrong story. I had romanticized a completely different story for this man burdensomely carrying flowers to an unknown destination.
I reach into my pocket and took my phone out. I wanted to get away from the fantasy and go back to reality. I desperately tried to see who was online and if any of these people would care to answer my message, my SOS message.
I scrolled up and down in a vain attempt to find the right friend on my list. I hesitated. I scrolled up and down again. I was decided to make contact. I wanted the fiction to stop.
PsychoCandy always brought me back to reality in the sweetest way possible. Dj always listened to me, patiently gave me advice, and talked to me about how to overcome my fears and shadows. And Gomen would make me smile even on the verge of tears. But none of them answered my IM. I was all alone in my collection of stories. I was all alone in my cold winter. Their light was green, but they must have been living their lives. It was just seconds that felt like an eternity. I was all alone at the back of tram number 12 going home. A few stops away from home. Must have been the time zones. It must have been the fact that they had a life. It must have been the way my brain worked in the midst of winter. It must have been my winter-numbed hands. I didn't know why everything was upsidedown. "I am upside down," I thought, and I loved it.
The doors of the tram slammed with the usual beep, beep, beep. I looked up, scanned the people there, and panned left.
Romeo wasn't there anymore. He had left my story. He was gone. To his funeral, or to his lover. He wasn't there anymore. My story had ended and I was one step close to home.
I readied myself to enter the grey of winter again and then my phone vibrated. It was my friends ready to help.
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