One year and a half has gone by and I haven't heard a word from you. I sat in that smelly living room, or was the bedroom filled with their memories, I don’t even know what it was more, but yet, I can still remember the heat, the misty windows, the warm milk, the steps under which the floor kept on cracking. I tried to bring you back, to see how it all turned after you were gone. I miss your hair, the way you washed it, then brushed it with your special hair brush, made of bone, the way it curled around the curve you traced with so much care, the way the swallow gathers those little string of human and horse hair, the horse hair has more strength, it is used to build the nest’s backbone, and little pieces of mud, crackers, nutshells, and stitches.
Is that all that we are? Pieces used to make a huge something else? Aren’t we that big something that the rest cosmic pieces need to stay away from the void of happiness? If a person gets to be melancholic, why do the rest of the human beings, two legged pieces in the cosmic puddle, walking lacks of consciousness, floating basic concerns, with nothing to think of but the primary needs, become suddenly enlightened? Does someone’s nostalgia, loss of direction, hazard, fuzziness, uncertainty, unexpectedly triggers that little foreign key in humans’ brains full of vegetable earth connected to a questioning, unlimited source of energy. That key, which is no more than an ordinary one, even if I sometimes want to think of mine like those keys used to open secret gardens, full of small guns which never trigger, roses that are always close to that step when they bloom, but they never do, with birds that have almost learned how to fly, but they never do, with nymphs that have almost metamorphosed, but they haven’t yet done that. Isn’t that what every little insect on this little blueberry planet does? Starts so many things, that it forgets which of those they have started on their own, which is their job to complete, they even don’t know what they know, or don’t know that they don’t know so many things. Yet they know how to forget, and they know they know that.
My key is different. It’s a journal I keep to remember the doors I have opened, the locks it stuck into, the latches where I felt another insects breath, finger touch, pulse, heart pumping with a full capillary dilation, inhaling every microbe, every microscopic particle of my frigid key. This journal has many incrustations, flowers that were forgotten, left aside for new fresh ones, bronze, frozen sticks, apples traded for talking birds, kept in caves made of those frozen sticks, cut in the middle, pieces of the planets it had been to, it just bit those rounded ( hate it when they’re round), models of supreme formation, cluster and handcraft. Formation of many cores gathered in one place not be alone anymore. It is a constant fear of singleness. Yet everything is governed by such a separate togetherness, that every inch of every something’s body, became separate from its formation, shell, tissue, scars that have never healed become separate, giving that whole a lose of memory, much needed, for continuing the decomposing, scavenging for more freshness, for another self.
