Me, I’m this liquid celluloid, and things don’t hurt anymore. Can’t remember what happened. Was it yoga? I don’t know. I was a creeping westerner learning how to breathe and bang, all gone. I do sometimes feel something happening on the surface. Something that reminds me of something really bad or something really good. But me, I laugh. I love my shadows. I told myself I knew I were you, but every time I tried to tell you, you flew away.
That’s also why I don’t write here anymore. ☺
That sweeping love, oh, that feeling you give me, I melt inside. I could run in the cold rain, the freezing air stabbing my lungs, like I did many times before, just to throw stones at your window. No. Now I won’t run in the cold rain anymore. Now you’re my neighbour. I can’t drink your coffee, I won’t drink your wine, and amazingly, that kind of made you mine. How funny it is. Now that I know the way, I don’t want to go anymore. Now I will turn this cosmic convulsion inside me into rays of life, butterflies of all colours, the wisdom of an old carp. None. I won’t run, and now you live right by me. Life is funny.
You and all your faces. You were blond and obedient once, a long time ago. You were brown and loud and superficial, off you head. I loved you then. You were strong and suddenly weak, so I had to leave. I’m sorry. Now you’re tall and sweet and clever, and I would run in the cold rain to get to you in other times, but now I sit here and turn your love into rays of all colours. My neighbour.