Tuesday, 7 March 2017

From time to time I learn of a story, usually ridiculously tragic, that makes me awfully sad and I will never forget it… But then I bring it up again a few years later and nobody has any idea of what I am talking about. A few years back the General’s family and I were stacking wood in one of their forests and somebody told me of a distant relative or some acquaintance, a younger man, who lived not too far in the forest, on one of the hills. He was a sad, lonely person, always a bit unlucky. He finally bought himself a good, expensive chainsaw to try and make more earnings by forest jobs and of course right soon someone stole the fucking chainsaw. He hanged himself.
Because there is no way I can make this story better, can’t even hope that he haunts the moron who stole his saw, wishing him peace, perhaps even happiness in some next life, I think of him from time to time and cry. The interesting bit is, if I bring this up to the General’s family, nobody has any idea what I am talking about. It’s possible someone else told me the story, one of the helping neighbours who were there that day to help us load the logs. I know I didn’t make it up, because I don’t allow my mind to get sad like that.
Or the forest told it to me, wanting me to know. I pick up shit like that - from time to time.
Sad can be weird.