Tommy Ingberg

Piše: Jelena Gojšić, 3. d

Ovo je priča o dvoje nevidljivih ljudi koji pješače životom kroz mračnije probleme i na kraju odrastu. Samo kratki prikaz problema moje generacije, izvan šminke i frizure, tj. stvarni problemi koji nas muče.

First time I saw him He was just a nobody, an invisible little guy. He would slowly come out of school, after the sea of blank minds that came before him, the only one left. I was just as invisible so He didn’t notice me, and here began our gloomy routine. I would get out almost running, find my place under the pine tree, and light a cigarette. The sea would follow, going home, just as everyone knew and expected, and after a few minutes… nothing, peace. I would light a second one, and then He would come, out of nowhere and pull out his phone and headphones. He would never see me, just walk slowly by, like He didn’t want to go anywheres He was going, and out of many things that were our connexion for most, we didn’t want to get home.


I met a strange man,
unknown just like me.
Who was this strange man
that no one else could see?
He was just a student,
but with wisdom in his eyes,
an impossible child
or an adult in disguise.
He was not just too young,
not just a label or a word,
but a man of a thousand pages
or a boy wanting to be a bird.
But the world has no time,
only enough for a label,
so the man is a student
the rest is just a fable.

A girl was there every day, under the pine tree smoking. He saw her, and She saw him, but neither said a word. For a few months She just stood there, watching him, wordless, until She smiled. He wondered who She was. She was very much like him, and they were both different, but not the acceptable kind of different. It was the kind of different that only found acceptance in the unacceptable. He smiled back one day, and then they were friends. They talked, not about each other; rarely about that. They talked about nothing, just like everyone does, but even their nothing was only acceptable to themselves. They had each other now, and that is where the story should end, but neither of them was what they should be and what was expected of them, so neither is their story.


I had no words,
But words were not needed,
She had blue eyes
And they said enough.
I saw her bruises,
and she saw my scars,
and we were naked,
so no words were needed.
I knew who she was,
but it was unpleasant
to the world,
so it discarded her.
Now we are two
discarded people,
who can show their worst,
and would be accepted.


They were on a park bench, just sitting, talking about life and laughing at how horrible their lives were. It was so funny that if they weren’t laughing, they would be crying. A silence came quietly, but sudden, like a tornado, destroying everything in its path. He seemed sullen now, buried in the heaviness of the world. She knew He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks, that He barely ate, and noticed of course how sad he seemed all the time. No, not really sad… He was empty, with no happiness, or sadness left, as if he had run out of it all, or an invisible force had sucked all the emotions out. His laughs were shallow, and his behaviour an act, so transparent to Her. It was rarely this bad. She gave him the bottle. He said nothing, didn’t even look at Her, just took it and started drinking.


Look into the eyes
of tomorrow.
Look at those walls
coloured grey.
Painted in blood,
sweat and horror.
Just for us,
by life, it was made.
Look into the past,
why are those walls grey?
They used to be rainbow coloured,
why couldn’t that colour stay?


If his parents had actually wanted a child, who knows how He might have turned out. If they hadn’t neglected him, ignored him, if they had actually sometimes been home, and talked to him, He was sure his life would have been better. Maybe He would continue school, maybe He wouldn’t have been diagnosed with bipolar at the age of eleven. They both had their demons. Hers were obvious, but no one cared enough to notice them except for him of course. So who were they then? Were they even real? No one knew or cared for them, no one ever saw them, and if they had died then, would they have ever even existed?


I talked to the moon,
and he told me a lie,
it had to be a lie,
because the truth was too real.
The moon had no name,
a white rock or a dream,
who knows what it was
before it had a name.
Now the moon is something,
because they told him his name,
so maybe I will be someone
if they tell me the same.


He took her hand and pulled up her sleeve, her pale arm full of dark spots. No words needed to be said. She was far more grateful for the silence. He held her hand, still trembling and knew She couldn’t go back home. She knew that too. His parents weren’t home, they were never home, so She sat down while He gave her a blanket and a pillow. It was late when She came, after midnight for sure, and even later when She fell asleep. He was there with Her until that moment, both of them silently watching TV. She cried, and He was still holding her hand, never letting it go. They never spoke a word and She fell asleep in tears, far more grateful for the silence.


Clock was ticking,
rain was falling,
but the rose was blooming,
the rose was growing.
Clock was ticking,
the rose was crying.
The symbol of love,
but her love was dying.
The saddest rose,
but so very brave.
The prettiest gift
he ever gave
Clock was ticking,
the rose was dead,
because of the prettiest
words he ever said.


She was on the floor. She didn’t remember the last couple of days, her head bursting with pain, but all She could think of was more alcohol, more drugs, more pills, to numb the pain She felt inside. She was alone. She was always alone, even when She was with other men. She was alone ever since He left her. They always talked about leaving together, about going to Australia or New Zealand, but in the end He left her alone, just like everyone else did. She never blamed him though; She actually admired his bravery, but never collected the courage herself. She has regretted that every day since.


Sometimes we are alone
with no place to call home.
Sometimes I can’t see the stars,
and feel like behind bars.
It’s a lonely prison made with bricks of fear,
empty of all you once held dear.
And sometimes we hold the key
and can’t decide where we’d rather be.


Izvor za uvodnu sliku: Tommy Ingberg Surreal Photo Art