Unclear and indistinct

Author: Samuel Beckett (France)
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-09-01
Features: Forget everything you've done before. I can't do many things at once. This way the pen has time to record. I can't see the pen, but I hear it's over there, behind me. In other words, silence. When the pen stops, I still continue. Sometimes the pen refuses to write. When it refuses, I still continue. I can't stand too much silence. My voice is too low, and it sometimes echoes from within me. That's my method and my way. I've done everything he wanted. I also want to do these things. For him. Every time he wants something, I want it too. For him. All he has to do is say it. When he doesn't want anything, I don't want anything either. I've reached the point where I can't live without desires. If he wants to give me something, I'll want it too. Like happiness or honor. All my desires are the desires he expresses. But he has to express all his desires. All his desires and needs. When he's silent, he might be like me. When he tells me to lick his penis, I go down and lick it. I find satisfaction in it. We should have the same satisfaction. The same needs and the same satisfaction. One day he told me to leave him. He used the word "leave." He probably couldn't last long like this. I don't know if he said this to make me leave him or just to make me stay away for a while. I didn't think about it. I've always only thought about his problems. Anyway, I turned and left without looking back. Without hearing his voice, I left his circle of life. Maybe that's what he wanted. People see some problems but don't bring them up. He probably couldn't last long like this. But I can. We are from completely different eras. This relationship didn't last. I walked into the darkness, and a few faint lights seemed to flicker in my head. The earth is unfeeling, but not entirely so. If I had brought three or four lives to this world, I might have been able to do something. When he lifted my hand, I was about six years old. I had just finished childhood. But I wasn't in a hurry to completely leave childhood. He lifted my left hand. If he stood on the right, it would make him uncomfortable. So we walked forward, hand in hand. We only needed one pair of gloves. The empty hands—or rather, the hands on both sides—hung loosely by our sides. He didn't like the feeling of his skin touching someone else's. But the secretions were another matter. But sometimes he would take off his gloves. Then I had to do the same. We walked about a hundred meters like this, fingers bare, touching each other. We rarely walked further. He was satisfied. If someone asked me, I would say that without one hand, you can't fully experience the intimacy between two people. My hand never found its place in his. Sometimes our hands would loosen. The grip would weaken, and they would fall apart. Usually, after a long while, they would come back together. His hand would pick mine up again. Our gloves were close-fitting woolen gloves. They didn't hide the shape of the hands at all; instead, they showed the shape of the hands in clean, simple lines. Over the years, my glove, of course,