Of mammal fats and alcohol

The text below is written in English for a special purpose, and for me try out some new things. Writing in English proved to be as hard as expected and I intend not to continue. Whether you like it or not, I didn’t want to leave it on my HD after all the time spent on it. It’s a bit more artsy than what I write in Finnish, but Rollomixed revolves pretty much around these same topics year after year. This text originated as a translation from the last post written in Finnish, but ended up somewhat different.

Shit, I never said I liked ice climbing.

I just thought I liked bacon and near-frozen red wine.

But finding myself in these nicotine shortage -like symptoms, tapping my fingers on the table, staring out of the window and grinding my teeth, I began to suspect my appetite for mammal fats and alcohol.

My mind wanders out of our warm home, into the dark but now white forest, and I imagine the icefall already forming.

It grows slowly but steady, drip by drip, changing the waterdrop's states from liquid to rigid, and reaching further and further.

As it gains mass, it starts to apply pressure on my cortex. It feels like if it would be in between my brain and skull.

I wonder, do I think about it too much, is it weird, or is it more weird that I write about it and somebody else reads it on the Internet.

I get up, go to the mirror and stare the eyes in it. I wonder do my eyes look like some of those that I've seen – hungry, concentrated, and willing to sacrifice a lot. Those kind of eyes, that stare back into you deep, and evaluate your capability of sacrifing - while most of them, who are looked, consider the beholder just as an adult with no real life.

I wonder, which one I am, the one who has no real life, or the one who had it, but lost it for the sake of climbing – or lost something else in the name of employment.

I spend a moment to recall the choices made, and consider them mediocre, but in a good way – considering the one who was making them. Having chosen differently, I wouldn’t be looking at the eyes I’m looking now.

I know these eyes, because I’ve seen them filled with fear, as well as delight. And I know by looking when something’s wrong.

And after all these years, I now see something new in them - a hint of fatigue – they look like they’re tired for all this, and want something completely different.

And I can’t blame her. The never-ending driving, the cold, the discomfort of it all - and in addition to her own disappoinments and setbacks, she has to cope with mine as well – you know, all that shit that explodes when the front door closes behind us.

I always said that it’s just as good for you as the successes, that it gives you perspective. How could you value good times without knowing the bad? She usually claimed to agree while I wasn’t so sure about myself.

But watching her roping up, I know there’s still the hunger, and the willing. And it’s liberating to know it’s there.

Because when I see her eyes lit up like that again, I know that she, too, likes bacon.

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