(Attempt)

(Este creo que sera el comienzo del cuento que llevo tratando de escribir desde el anio pasado y ya no sera 50/50 ficcion realidad, creo que se pondra mas y mas ficticio, escribo en ingles as a defamiliarisation process, necesito flitros y me siento comodo usando el traducir del ingles al espanol como filtro)



His first suicidal thought came after an idea hit him like a rotating red brick on his forehead making his neck bend backwards. With his fists tightly clutched in his brown worn out coat while looking at the snow spotted hills he listened to the announcement in Norwegian that possibly said something like "the train from Bodø will arrive in a few minutes to take you the hell out from Fauske," and right there he realised that not once he had stopped to think about anything. The Train from Bodø was coming and he had nothing but maps, diagrams, future conversation outlines and floating faces in his head. On that bench on that train station in the middle of nowhere he would end up his life and he would remain there as a memorial of 2007, the year when a young amateur backpacker realised there was nothing to think about. It would be constantly shit on by pigeons, vandalised by bored youths and people would take pictures by it with innocent vulgar visual innuendos.

He Looked around, the hills still had some snow and the wind kept constantly blowing making his sunburnt face ache.

"I'm so self-indulgent that I make myself sick" he thought.

He finally got on the train. He felt relief, not only because we would be warm for the next 17 hours on the train to Oslo. In a way he was happy he was going back home, he really tried to block this feeling, for ages he had tried to leave Scotland. He remembered his longs conversations with Andrew where he would listen to him patiently, it was alway the same, andrew thought ardently that Aberdeen was a trap, that its soil was knitting slowly and labouriously their feet to the ground. Andrew was too full of conviction and he moved his hands way to frantically, Tristram did not want to agree with him, not publicly, not aloud, not too comitted. He wanted to stoic and work his way out of Scotland quietly, he would nod at Andrew's statements and enquire "And then? What happens after you leave Scotland?" Andrew would sip his wine first maybe as to have more time to answer and would finally reply "Then I start living." The desperate cliche for an answer, Oh! there was going all credibility sinking in a pond of childish rebelious attitudes.

Tristram wouldn't say anything, Andrew had humiliated himself enough, or maybe he didn't, he wouldn't let Tristram's sourness to mess up with what he wanted, moreover, Andrew knew they both shared this longing.

For three months he had been rambling in Scandinavia. One day he noticed he had enough money to leave somewhere and he chose the remoteness that was closer and he fled to cease his longing. When he arrived in Helsinki he decided he wouln't have a future plan until one popped up. He considered joining a Sami community, becoming a bartender in Stockholm or trying to find his way on the small ancient Cod fishing business in any of the islands in Lofoten. He wasn't truly convinced by any and he was running out of money.

On the train while crossing the snowy semi flooded moors where he thought the Arctic Circle was he felt that a sensation of self-sabotage was hauting him, he stared bluntly at the shoes of the man across, something in his shoes suggested fjords. He eagerly wanted to stop thinking that he was unvoluntarily sabotaging his plans of leaving Scotland. He thought of what he had managed to do. He thought of the strings he cut to free himself from Aberdeen. He quit his job, blatantly ignored his family wishes and he willingly got to not to miss his friends. Now, the next 50 hours were carefully scheduled like cut patterns on heart surgery.
In 17 hours he would be in Oslo in the early morning, in the afternoon he would fly to Glasgow, spend the night there and take a morning train to Aberdeen.
There were duties waiting for him in Aberdeen, Lucien's existence seemed to be getting more and more vague and Andrew seemed to be going mad. He thought that if he really tried he might make a difference in his friends' life for the very first time. For now, he was just crossing rocky hills crammed with pines.

"There is nothing wrong with a purposeless life," Lucien thought "for we live as if travelling on thunder, and that's a bless, and there is no time for stopping to finnish things since that would get us off the speed of life