I find myself at some bar
in the middle of some tiny island paradise;
my own pair of eyes
watching someone play with a pair of dice;
surrounded some clear,
calm seas,
capped with some clear, calm skies;
sipping on some clear, calming drink;
the first or the sixth — it doesn’t really matter,
I’m not really there. I’m picturing myself daydreaming about being on some grassy field
with some hills before me.
Some ancient oaks crown their soft peaks,
witnesses to their own fair share of life.
Something draws my attention
to a particular hill
with a particular oak
which shades a particular monument
from the bright sun and sky upstairs.
A monument as white as ivory,
but worn like a tooth,
a solitary stone structure among the rolling gnolls.
I begin to approach it, not really knowing why or caring for that matter, but I continue to walk, thinking diligently to myself, or to someone upstairs, about something I can’t quite put into words. The Germans have a name for this particular kind of hidden thought that constantly gnaws at you with an infinitely stubborn persistence: Hintegedanka.
It doesn’t help to explain what I’m trying to think about, but at least now I have a name for it.
I find myself in front of the meter-high tooth:
it’s a tombstone.
The cornerstone between life and death.
My name is clearly etched up to its face,
though has been battered by time.
There I lay, my new home.
So small of a marker
to represent so big a thing
as a life.
How could this happen?
How did I end up like this?
My vision begins to blur and I blink.
When my eyelids rise again,
I find myself in a dim hotel room
with dull walls and a dull carpet,
sitting on a matching dull bed
with a phone in my hand.
I am far away from the green hills,
even further away from the island bar.
I raise the phone to my face
and dialed her number,
the one I said I loved and she said she loved me back,
then promptly left.
Yeah, her.
She picked up nonetheless
and I hung up.
She called me back
and I hung up again.
The process had already begun;
had already been in motion for a long time.
There was no need to bother,
no need for it to be anymore.
There I sat on that ancient mattress
in the middle of that dimly lit room,
suffering through my midlife crisis:
thirty-one years old;
these days it hits you when you’re young,
then you die,
but your life keeps on going through the motions;
through brisk winter mornings
and cool summer nights,
until you die a second time,
the lesser of two deaths;
it’s the one most people notice and remember.
Some people realize this
and grip on to others so tightly
that their knuckles crack and bleed,
not letting go because love has taken control
and they will surely die if they let go,
even for a brief moment,
not realizing that they’re suffocating
the thing they love,
shortening their time with them,
in turn, causing them to grip even harder.
I realized this far too late,
and can never live down the deceit
I chose to follow,
so there I sat,
there in that hotel room,
letting myself slip even further.
I’m back at the bar.
The ice sits at the bottom of my glass
as I order another round;
as I take another round
on this merry-go-round of life,
desperately trying to catch up
to whatever’s in front of me,
just like my dreams behind me,
racing in place,
trying to get to me,
trying to catch up to me,
because I hardly sleep anymore;
I don’t get any sleep;
they never reach me.
Still, I wonder
how things could have gone so wrong.
I am tired.
O so very tired,
yet young;
yet feel so old.
So very old.
Don’t let these years fool you
into thinking otherwise —
they lie as much as the stars do;
twinkling vibrantly,
like youth filled balls of infernal innocence,
but they are filled with ancient experience.
Yet I still feel so small,
so insignificant —
how can something as tiny as I
mean so much to so many?
Too many, but there it is:
I am a world to some,
an entire Universe to others,
and to one, the reason they exist at all.
The sun is setting now,
slowly dipping its rays into the sea
with never-ending waves farewell.
Up above,
stone colored clouds gather with veins of gold,
etched into their cracks and crevices:
a parting gift.
A storm is brewing;
a storm is coming;
a storm will be here soon.
What does it mean?
It doesn’t matter,
but maybe in a year or ten,
it will all make sense.
Only the ones upstairs truly know.
I have to accept the fact
that things will never be the same.
It’s the kind of acceptance that isn’t easy to swallow,
and often gets stuck in the throat,
but still, you swallow it,
little by little,
hoping and praying
that you don’t choke on it
in the same way, that love can choke;
moving on one step at a time,
a day forward rather than backward,
no matter how small or how many,
because even small progress is still progress.
I may not believe in God,
but I find myself kneeling
before that fated tooth tombstone.
The grass on the hill rustles with the cold winds of an empty heart, as ominous clouds tumble overhead, like river rocks as the frigid rushing waters course through them; flowing through currents of wind, following creeks and streams of air, threatening to flood everything in its path — a turbulent sea in the sky. The clouds break now and again, revealing the blue sky beyond, only to be swallowed up by the gold-lined clouds; traced out by the sun’s Midas Touch, but it’s all fool’s gold: this gold can rust; this gold does rust, turning into oranges and reds, pinks and violent violets, and lastly beaten purples and the deepest blues, the kind of blues a solitary siren would sing.
The songs of a Summer’s night, rain down upon my two lives, a former and latter, soaking the present in tears as angels rush across the darkening sky with their crowns of lightning and throats full of thunder, speaking the words no one ever wants to hear, but will always need to hear.
It was then that I realized
that there was nothing to realize.
It was all there at the beginning,
knew it all from the start,
but took me until the end
to see that truth lies,
and it lies at the bottom of a well;
at the bottom of a grave,
and not at the top.
I can still see things coming,
so there’s still time to change,
there’s still time to hope —
as long as there is a tomorrow,
there will always be hope,
and time to change.
And that’s all for now,
I’m not really good at endings.
I’m sorry, it’s just the way I am:
things just end,
like life,
but I still try to hold on,
trying to do my best.
We all try to be good,
try to do good,
because we all WANT to be good for the ones we love,
for in the end,
we know our time is short,
our time will always end up being too short,
no matter how long it really was,
but at least I can say I tried;
at least I can say I have loved.
FIN
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