The tides tear apart, tongues are cut off, or maybe, just maybe, words are unwritten.
If it wasn’t for the blue lightning, the yellow sky, and my conviction, I could have gone far. I could have jumped cities and said no to Time. They say only cities can be said yes or no to, and Time is our master and History not our friend. But nostalgia, an easy disguise, is what gets us going, what gets us forgetting, what gets us willing to crave day after day, as an interrupted dream that there’s no going back to.
Fear is desire. He desires fear. He fears desire. Desire isn’t and fear isn’t. Our favourite fictions with no need to be printed. That would be too much to handle. Like a thousand five hundred page book, hardcover at that, a mammoth smack to the hand’s body and the eye’s memory.
It starts raining pages and I close the windows to the remorse. No one will read them anyway. People will miss paper airplanes. People will miss their laptops, cellphones, digital stalkers. They’ll miss them so bad that they’ll say that times aren’t actually getting better, quoting the paper plane man in the subway who they never actually listened to.
Beauty brushes itself into our pictures, the ones we take, keep, draw, recall. But beauty is a stranger due to all the pressure.
Your half life tells you that the day won’t wait.