Tell me. Show me.
We have been down this same road, for five years now.
Every single year, we do the same thing.
And predictable events follow.
And we end. And we start again.
Where is the sense in that.
2010. I started it all.
I left. Found new love.
She was dutiful.
We couldn’t pronounce beautiful together.
We were duty. Till you came begging. On all fours.
You were dying. I left her. I returned home.
2011. It was your turn.
He was tall to no end. Tooooo tall he could pluck a star out of the sky.
I kept my eyes on the sky. Resigned. Waiting for him to fall in love with a star.
And leave you for me. It did not happen.
You got tired of craning your neck.
And fell in my waiting dwarfed arms. Heaven fell. In our hands. And they became the world.
2012. You pulled a double.
The sun itself was in love with you. I mean, the sun. All light and heat and hotness.
I was proud to be illuminated in its shine. Life lived you two.
Stories told my loneliness tale. Anger was angry with me. Envy envied me.
Extra-ordinary love. The erasure of the self. The death of the me.
I came crawling. Into your skirts. Those brightly colored long long long pieces of cloth they can carpet a whole palace. And like the earth, we rotated around the sun. And eventually broke free. Formed our own galaxy.
2013. It was too good to be true. I tell, you. Remember the vacation in Hawaii. The chain had been broken. We had found the cure. Those silly human and natural and organic smiles? And the Afros. And the beaches. You had never been this spiritual. The houses of sand we built in notebooks, diaries, notepads, iPads, iPhones, and on hearts. Love is a truth. A lie to those who have never met it in its splendor. We were love itself. And what happened? The news. Through the power of the Holy Spirit, I had someone carry my child, that turned into flames soon enough and the guilt stayed and stayed and you could not take it, and I left and you left, and I came back and you shut the door at me, and the world laughed at us, and I cried to the world, and they laughed loudly, and you kept yourself to yourself, and shut the world out and me with the world, and the end came for me, and it also left me, and beyond the end there was nothing left, but I created the myth that I still could live, could un-die and then gbam, the miracle happened, that afternoon, when you stepped back into my phone-book with your voice and odd-numbered identity and I knew life does not end, and I knew we were headed for the stars, I knew we would be the sun, I could not be me anymore, I no longer existed and could not know you either, I needed to be something, not the holy spirit that impregnants people for me and then takes away the pregnancies by SMS … Something had to be done to recover me. To make me. To put me into existence.
2014. How can we be back to square one? To start the cycle again? C’mon. Can we be more creative? It gets boring. There is nothing below where we have sunk. There is nothing beyond the sun and the stars and our own galaxy. We have exhausted everything. Where is the fun in this? Where is the sense? Why do we have to go through this again? What is different this time? We had bits and pieces for hearts, now we have ashes. What can we do with these? Where is the sense in this? Is it in the senselessness?