I scratch. I scratch and try not
to think about it. I scratch and hate myself for it. I scratch and try not to
think about the scars. I scratch and think about the Captain. Something drove
him crazy in this house. Not musquito bites, not something as inferior as that,
I bet. But something made him cross borders a human being shouldn’t cross.
It is almost 2 ‘o clock and the darkness outside isn’t
really darkness. The night is something resembling what I would call the early
hours of morning. It is a quiet night. No owls, no nightbirds, no buzzing
insects. The soft sound of my fingers on the keyboard. The sound of my fingers
scratching my skin.
What is the sound of madness?
Dripping water. A dog growling. A buzzing of some kind.
Something getting bigger and bigger. Something that ends in complete silence.
The moment just before that. What do you hear? Angels singing? Snails sighing?
Whenever I enter my room, the Captain’s room, something is creaking at the far end of the room, just outside the reach of my vision. I
know it is because the plank I step on when entering the room connects my feet to
the little door on the right. I know there isn’t really somebody leaving the
room every time I enter it. But I like the sound. It is comforting in some way.
I met somebody who recently met the Captain. Somewhere not
too far from Stockholm. He was doing well. Drinking smoothies instead of rum.
Trying to find a new place to live. Trying to realise his dream to sail to
Fiji. Trying to forget a red house in the woods.
Being in a place that somebody is trying to forget. Being in
a place to gather new memories. Ending up in the memories of others. Slowly
getting disconnected from the real world. Whatever that is.
Or maybe this is the real world. Maybe this is where it
meets a parallel world. A world in which the Captain is fighting a storm, alone
on his dream vessel. On his way to Fiji. Always on his way to Fiji.
In fact he is on his way. This person who met him told me.
She told me he inherited money after his father died. His father who owned a
rum factory. He used the rum money to buy a boat. A big one. One that can sail
him to Fiji.
Maybe he is already there. Maybe having bought the boat
means he is already there. He doesn’t actually have to sail there because the
dream isn’t a dream any longer. Maybe he can’t even sail. Maybe he is only
called the Captain because he dreams of sailing.
Since I arrived here I didn’t remember my dreams. Unless
this is my dream. A dream in which it is a light night forever and my
scratching fingers only get distracted from the musquito bites whenever a word
pops up that they have to write down. A dream in which on my right side I can
see the tree tops against the pale blue night sky and on my left side the
outlines of a two piece suit that is darker than any night I’ve ever seen. A
dream in which I try on the suit and sit on the bench under the window, look
out into the night and spell the word captain by forming the letters with my
right index finger on my left underarm. A dream in which this is the only way
to make the itching stop.
I searched his pockets. There was nothing there. But there
is a beautiful label in his suit. It reads “Flaneur”. Walker.
