Fragment #4 - Upon the starlit ceiling

It’s been raining, on and on, for so many days. I do feel sick. I don’t know why, anyway, but I feel so sick. Sick of this crap weather, sick of Granny always speaking about the kindness of my “oh-my-god-he’s-so-bright” fecking father, sick of myself, though. I still don’t know where I am. Highgate, London. Well, that’s a beginning, and so what? My life is in France, what have I done, leaving the love of my life away from me. I was scared I think. Scared of myself and where I was driving into. A brick wall of memories. Sometimes I just want to curve up as a fetus, lay in my bed, and cry. But as soon as I dive onto the cotton sheets, I can’t help staring at the ceiling. And there I remember. I followed the moon.
Muffled sounds are coming from downstairs. Granny and granddad are having a raw. Again. Why, what for? I can’t understand them. Granddad has a very difficult job, nerve racking. He has a French restaurant in central London. He comes back home quite late, and has to be there at 8 in the morning. He needs to get the bus to Archway then take the tube to Charing Cross. As I also do so often. Soho is my house now. I just go up and down the Old Crampton Street, staring at muscular men off the cafés and bars. People are smoking on the pavement now, because of the smoking ban in bars, restaurants and night-clubs since the first of July. Clouds of smoke float by me, entering my lungs, making me cough. But I don’t mind, because in a way, this smoke has penetrate the most intimate of their body, and this cloud, from lips to lips gives me a misty French kiss.
My head aches. It’s been raining for so many days, hard drenching rain. Now the sky is grey, but the air, a bit windy, is warm and comfortable. I feel like going to the town centre, wandering about in the squares, staring at some muscular guys, but not calling them or anything. Just pleasure for the eyes. There will be anyway so many people in Oxford Street, as usual, plus with the going out of Harry Potter’s last book, the streets will be overcrowded. Still, five days after, people are still going to bookstores and asking for it. Anyway, I need a book. I’ve been living for so long with Pasolini’s Theorema’s images in my mind for so long. I need a new book, new images to occupy my lonely brain, new style to break in my young spirit.
The ceiling over me is not white anymore. It has pumped in all images still left in my brain from the last film that had soaked into my body. A woman buried alive, only her eyes left to see her slow death; a naked man wandering, mad, in the barren desert; a seizing young woman left destroyed by the man’s departure. My ceiling is colourful now, living images –which had directly fled from my eyes– printed upon it. And over them, still printed from my latest rest, a starlit sky.