‘What’s your least favorite kind of tea?’
We sipped on our last drink before taking off. I didn’t tell you, but I saw that you squeezed our days on earth into tiny boxes that you would scratch off religiously when the clock ticked zero.
The madmen. The revolutionaries. The wise minds trapped in young bodies. The young minds trapped in the elderly.
Was the space for the different merely an illusion?
I look at you for reassurance. A frown between eyes the size of two fat Italian olives tells me all that I need to know.
‘They don’t read like we read. They don’t sleep like we sleep. They don’t walk like we walk. They don’t smile like we smile.’
We read like the writer is observing us waiting impatiently for our remarks. Like we embody characteristics, movements, colors, behaviors and not simply characters.
We sleep like black mirrors are objects of frivolity. Like nights are endings and mornings are second chances.
We walk like there is no destination. Like we’re picking up the scents, the sounds, the images as we go along. Like rushing doesn’t exist. Like time is suspended.
We smile like it’s a conversation. Like looking sends questions and looking back sends the answers. Like it’s a language with no dictionary. Like you are the interpreter and you can only hope to get the message delivered and received the way it’s meant to be.
Was the space for the divergent merely an illusion?
There is no place for us here, but we try the best we can with the time we have. It’s a silent acknowledgment of our condition.
‘You missed one. They don’t love like we love.’
This one marked the blatant disparity. I could accept the reading, the sleeping, the walking, the smiling or its lack thereof. But not the loving.
‘How do they love?’
Like they’re always on the lookout for better. Like all memories are only meant to be documented, not lived. Like there’s a fear of oneness as if individuality will be compromised.
‘So, they don’t love’
‘Won’t you ask me how we love?’
‘I won’t. I’ll simply feel.”