It seemed like it would be impossible to let it end like that once Eric saw Marie play the piano and sing for five minutes at the hotel. He would've never thought she was so talented. He would've never thought she would touch him so deep with her music. What a strong moment it was.
At the train station, Fernando was kissing another girl goodbye as if they were long time lovers. They were all saying their goodbyes. Kissing, without any promises. They knew they probably wouldn't see each other in the near future because... well, everyone had their lives, lived in different places, with different responsibilities and routines... and no one actually wanted anything serious. There's some sort of beauty about it, no? Anyways... What do you say at these moments? “Good luck in life”? Go figure...
Beatrice arrived a little bit after them and was actually pretty grateful when making her farewell. Said they'd always be welcome at her house and said she would've liked to know the rest of the people who she never had the chance to meet. She repeated the same invitation to Eric in private, but he didn't want to give any kind of hope for anyone. They did exchange numbers at the end though, as Beatrice was really convincing and persistent. After all, he might would be able to go back to Paris in the next months... or years, so why not keep some sort of track, right?
Eric and Marie said their goodbyes knowing that they would probably not see each other for a long time. And that was it. He saw her grab her bag and walk away, getting on the train with her aunt and friends. Eric didn't want to be the last one to leave, because he was sure they would wanted to mock Mike on being in love with one of Lucy's friend.
So Eric just moved on with his life, put his arms around Mike's neck (as a joke) and grabbed him, pulling him away, giving his buddy a sad smile.
Moments later, the train was gone. Almost five hours after saying goodbye to Marie, Eric and his band were heading to Berlin. They were all so tired that most of them just slept in their respective transportations, including Eric and Marie.
They had an awesome concert in Berlin. The group from Paris were going back to routine with a nostalgia that could've kill their soul, still digesting everything that had happened in Paris and in London. After the nostalgia, sadness hit in strong.
Routine was heavily back. Problems came back. The unbearable and inflexible routine that bring us to our knees, to boredom and disappointment. All of that was back.
Marie's perfume impregnated Eric's sweater (one he had lend her, during the time they were together), but when he questioned Mike about it, Mike made a funny face, saying there was no perfume at all, and Eric would never know if he was kidding or not.
After Mike said that, Eric had a flashback that hit his head as a hammer, bringing back old memories and pain that made him go silent for the rest of the trip. It had never came back that strong. And it would only get worse.
Ten days after the concert in Berlin, Richard announced something that was not very well received: The vacations were postponed, and actually shortened, because they were able to squeeze some more concerts and commitments for the band. They would have almost five months of tour ahead, and Richard himself warned them that it would be tiring. He, the guy who was always trying to enlighten everybody's mood, was seemingly worried about them, but apparently there was nothing he could do. Work was work, and apparently Tom had had a hand on it, helping them to get more money with all of that. Then they would have a quick ten days break, instead of three weeks, and three months after that, they would have three weeks to rest.
At that moment, everyone's exhaustion got really visible. People started complaining: they wanted to go home to rest, to truly rest. Eric wanted to take a break, true, but he didn't have a clear notion to where he'd like to go. Back to San Francisco, to his uncle's house? No, he could definitely stay away from that for a while longer. Mike's house? Maybe Tom's place? ... He wasn't sure where he'd feel comfortable. He didn't allow himself to think about Paris.
In the end it didn't matter, because they had to keep going. They packed their things again, and they kept going. Planes and hotels. Buses. And so many people, so much noise, but also so much silence and so many awkward looks. So many concerts and an increasing tension above them that you could almost touch it in the air. Even the rest of Eric's bandmates joined him in the silence that he had always put himself into from times to times. It also got worse for Eric. They had to meet musicians, journalists and random people. They partied and drank a lot. They had a lot of nights where they weren't able to sleep properly, which lead them to a new addiction: sleeping pills and energy pills, or energy drinks or anything with caffeine, because it was just impossible to maintain the rhythm they were obligated to. Everyone started to look for ways to feel a little bit better, more relaxed, and less lonely. So much drugs, so much alcohol, so much sex.
Time continued to pass, slowly, very slowly. Although not in a pleasant way as it had happened in London, but as if people were waiting for death to come meet them. Finally, it was to those kinds of moments in London or Paris to which they were holding on to, and going back to whenever they could.
Falling asleep during their bus rides, flights, or in any kind of break or moment that they had to wait for something became really frequent. They were now always tired from concerts, parties or from sleeping in planes and buses. It also became frequent to have black circles under their eyes. Richard kept telling them about how much money they were making with that new phase. That they would be able to enjoy so much once they got the job done and went home. He just forgot that actually no one cared much about it. They already had shit tons of money... Eric still didn't have a clear notion on where was his home: the only thing that mattered at that moment is that he was not enjoying himself. He even called Tom and asked his friend from where “all of that” had come from, but Tom just told him to “hang on” because he was trying to make as much money as possible for them at that moment, and in the year that was coming. Apparently he had some really big plans for Eric's band for the near future and he needed Eric to go through that. So Eric put the subject aside because his friendship with Tom was beyond question. If Tom had asked him to hang on, that's what they'd do.
They were passing by streets. And streets were passing by them. The weather finally started to get enjoyable, and the nights, lighter. But that silence, with looks that could pierce a soul, not pleasant at all, was getting stick to them in their skin.
Their lives became that stage. Vibrant, where they could spin away and forget about everything: Mike, about all his half loves along the way, Liam and Jack, knowing that they would probably be happier back home spending money and playing video games, and Eric, with his own ghosts, after lately adding a new one: Paris.
That stage definitely wasn't the problem: it was their lives, as the music itself was. It was excruciating though, all the work and discomfort that was put to travel between stages, between their pieces of salvation. Jumping from stage to stage, from city to city. From country to country. Sometimes not even knowing where you are, and having to answer in an interview what you're thinking about the city, or the country you are at the moment...
“Yeah, your airport, my hotel room and your concert hall seems nice”
Indeterminate spaces, nostalgic and bipolar. Tiring and confusing.
Eric, more than anyone else, was holding himself to his memories as hard as he could, because not long ago he found out his life was vanishing in the air: memories were disappearing, only lasting the bad ones. Still that young, he has had three lives and for a long time he had tried to block the memories from the first one. It had always haunted him, but he realized that for some reason it was coming back stronger and stronger. But he had to stop it somehow.
After all, you do everything in your power becau
se that sort of show must go on, right?
Fragments from Eric Meirelles's journal
“Today I've put my jacket on again and I felt that girl's perfume on it. That made me smile in a funny, silly way. For days I've been contemplating the idea of telling her how much I love her, and how much I want her. I thought about thousands and thousands possibilities these days, but every time I think about her, I get this weird sensation in my head and words simply disappear, just staying this unexplainable need to see her. I get paralyzed in this situation, with the feeling of not being able to fight for her. Maybe the way to her heart is just too difficult. What did I accomplish so far? Not one word. Not one nice word. To her, that in a way or another, always made me feel good, even though she's surrounded of so many people, better people than me, who can actually offer her something. People that also want her, and maybe have a way better chance of reaching out to her.
Is it possible that I still have, with all my lack of experience (and, ironically, the failures) a romantic dream? Maybe that's what I always wanted, but was just too afraid of admitting it.
I mean, isn't it what we all want? A person to love, or to be able to count on at any time? A witness of our lives and of our more truth self? Someone that will make your life seems... better?
All I know is that, so far, in the few moments I've spent with her, my life had some sort of purpose. I had some true fun and someone that could understand me, someone who was truly there for me. That's what makes me so certain that I have to fight for her, because it's the only good thing in my life at the moment. Because I just feel good around her, as I never felt before, with anyone.
I guess I just want more than what we've been sharing lately.
…Yeah, I definitely need to do something about it.'
“It definitely wasn't easy, I admit it. To get the balls to tell someone something that is totally not like you. But I did it. I've met her and after the time we spent, I told her what I was feeling. I felt pretty stupid to be honest, naked in all possible ways.
I still remember her reaction, her eyes. She took forever to say something, and it was a torture for me. Then she told me that she'd have to think about it. “Think about it”. Fuck. Then I felt even more stupid when I realized how important her ex-boyfriend still was on her life. She probably still loves him, and that hurts really really bad, deep in your stomach.
Now here I am, once again alone, in a Friday night, without anything to do, nowhere to go, just waiting for her. I feel like my world is depending on her, as I knew it would from the moment I decided to tell her that. I guess that's the romantic's dream: to offer your life to your loved one in a silver plate. People often relate romantism with beauty and love, but forget it has a pretty dark and deathful side to it too, and you just realize that in moments like this one. Fun times.”
“Life seems to be getting better. All because of her, her smiles and her unique way of getting to me. She's funny, she's smart. Life is awesome, actually. I finally got what I wanted, and I feel like I am in an amazing vertigo. Starting to know someone else though, makes us realize that no life is as poetic as it seems, and it can constantly bother us. In any case, I hang out with her basically everyday now, and even though we have our own different obligations, we are in a pretty good place I'd say. What matters is how good I'm feeling with her, and how she understands me. '
“Six months together and I believe we are doing pretty well. Love is the only thing that can fill our emptiness, she said a while ago. To stay here doesn’t seem such a bad idea after all, and besides what a lot of people say, love is not a form of slavery: it’s the only thing that can truly set you free. It's true that is complicated and that we argue sometimes, but I guess we learn how to deal with it.”
“It’s been two weeks since we broke up, less than eight months after we started dating. I just don't know what I did wrong, and ...at this point I honestly believe that it just doesn't matter... although I keep losing my sleep over it. It's just up to me to suffer in silence, and pretend everything's ok. I heard once that pride is the only thing that you can hold on to in moments like this, when your honor and heart are in risk, and that's what I have to believe in right now. This city, this country... there's nothing for me here, and anything I have told myself was just a bunch of bullshit. She's back with him. Not a matter of love, a matter of fuck. A matter that she just can't forget him. I feel disgusted on thinking about them both together. Fuck, that's so messed up”
“I ask myself to what should we really hang on to in our difficult moments. Friendship is a luxury and religion or any kind of belief or ...even a moral code, certainly can rest a person's heart, but it destroy their minds, destroy themselves. I wonder if religion is not the ultimate way that people too weak to face the reality use, to be able to live their lives and get out of bed every day. People who don't understand everything, and can't accept the fact that they don't know everything. Also of course, the most basic and instinctive human fear: death. My love is dead and my heart seems to be … just an organ, without any kind of romantism anymore. And that seems terrible: the loss of symbolism and romantism can kill a man's soul... But feeling pity for myself won't change anything. Humiliating myself, neither. One of the greatest poets ever said that it doesn't matter in how many pieces your heart has been broken, the world won't stop so you can fix it. Even he recognized it. Love cannot stop your life, broke your heart like that, because if it does, it’s not love, right? Love should move you forward, make you a better person, no? I've become the worse self I've ever seen with all of this, around them, and even in this situation, without anything else, I refuse to let people dictate my life, or even some shit called as fate. I just can't let things be this way forever, and I just can't let people step on me anymore. `
“One last time, I tried to go to my parents, blind by pain and despair. They just told me that it had been some sort of divine intervention to take me away from those losers. That I didn't belong with them, and definitely not with that girl. I went silent. I can't, I just can't deal with this kind of people. I just couldn't believe that that was going to be their reactions about it. A couple of weeks later, in which I didn't exchange a word with my parents, they told me things were getting unbearable. It was clear it was. Maybe I should go live with my uncle in the States for a while, for my own safety. I've never had that opportunity before, and after everything that happened, and everything I told them about how bad I hated living with them, they told me I should go. It's funny, after two years of asking them to go away and get denied, I'm practically thrown away now. Maybe I did want that to happen, and for that I'm never gonna forgive myself. Now I'm getting ready to go live with my uncle and stupid trophy wife, opportunity that I'm not gonna miss. Fuck the world. Just fuck'em all. I need to get out of here, forget all of that, and maybe, just maybe, fate will help me.”
“ It's been a year now that I live in San Francisco with my uncle and aunt, and my life in general seems to have got way better. As my uncle and aunt (yeah, she did work) are always working, they just never have that much time to worry about me and I love it. I guess it just feels like home, right?”
“Today I felt I finally took control of my life. Now I have my parents sort of working for me, which is kind of ironic. They had to leave Brazil because of all that happened, and they were more than happy to accept my help to stablish their (our, with Tom's help) new company in Toulouse. In any case, it's been more than two years and a half that I left my city, and I probably won't be back that soon. Probably never again, actually. There's nothing there for me. I just can't accept the fact that they are the ones living in France. '
“My life is great. I live as I want, I do what I want when I want and for the first time ever, I'm free to feel good all the time, in the only life t
hat I could possibly live my life with pride. Music revealed to be my great talent. Even that I'm not that talented, but I guess that's where the charm lives. I'll leave to Mike the talent side of it. He has talent enough for the whole band.
It just doesn’t matter: I'm surrounded by people that admire me, and shallow girls that just throw themselves at me. That's my life now, and as the guys said, we should enjoy it before our bears grow white. That's what we do.”
“I guess I'm depressed, and I have no idea how I got to this point: I have a violent insomnia, I'm always tired, sad, with headaches. I keep having nightmares and seeing all of that back in flashes...what happened...my hands...Fuck, it's a mess. I'm surrounded by shallow people that will never understand me. What was once exciting - traveling and meeting new people - is killing me. Truth is, people are basically the same, everywhere: boring, easy to read, stupid, shallow, hypocrites. I feel like... It’s useless to try to talk to anyone: people wouldn't understand, they would judge me, would change the way they treat me, even if trying to help... I guess silence is the best option. I can deal with it... Shit, I still remember the time where I thought love was the answer to everything. But it just had been disappointment after disappointment. Now I'm a douchebag that just doesn't care... I just don't care, and I have no idea where my life is going. Not that it matters much, anyways... I'll leave the problems behind me, and keep going on. Eventually I'll starve my demons to death”
Eric never knew exactly why he tried to keep a journal. First of all, because the concept of it's ...stupid, it's like having a blog. Second, because his life didn't allow him to have a very regular control of his days, in the sense of keeping it as a habit. Many of his days seemed just to vanish in the air, and some other just didn't exist in his mind, probably because of the level of intoxication. Others were just weird blurs on his memory. How could a person like Eric maintain some sort of diary? He would never be able to say, but he did, and it was useful sometimes, as some effort to stop his life from vanishing into the non-existing territory. He only regretted he hadn't started it earlier: Most of his life in Florianopolis was just gone in his mind now. He just couldn't remember big junks of his life there.