But it didn’t end there, because you married my cousin. And it seems I wasn’t surprised by it: your life had been broken by childhood miseries, and your irreverent attitude, mixed with a sexuality that gushed from you every step you made, sickened me from inside.
You liking me. Why through the intellect? I don’t know. I think that if you like me is but for a strange mix of attributes, ordinary when seen with those of their on species, but adorable if blended with others from so scattered origins. Especially for you, so full of prejudice, poor thing.
Because of a revelation in a determined circumstance (during which in a second he experiences many simultaneous lives), this man discovers he can be whomever he choses at every moment; he doesn’t know how to repeat the experience consciously, though.
“So no. I don’t think I had done anything wrong. Maybe I believed so at one moment, but, in retrospective, I guess there’s no way we could do wrong. Knowing that is our power.” She hadn’t finished saying it when she was already sorry. She knew it wasn’t the place or the moment to spit something like it. She could see in their faces that, from now on, for them, she’ll be “the lunatic”.
In this new world there exists no distance and I’ve been dreaming of you so consistently that you’re with me.
Even though I tried to trick my mind bringing up new subjects through which it could divert itself: the pimple on my face, the reason why I should go to work every day to an awful place, the wall fungus, my wish to be free (really free) or my recurrent knee pain, nothing attained to unstick this insane unusual idea from the thoughts-carrier matter.
He wasn’t quite sure, the book could desintegrate in his hands if he opened it. Without touching it, he blew on the cover; dust raised and lighted while passing through the window. Magic dust, he thought, and laughed.
Writing as vomiting. Not as vomiting, as pulling a handkerchief out of the mouth. Passing the words from one place to the other. My imagination as a door.
Sometimes they push to open it and get through. Sometimes I stand looking inward, checking the clock until I see them kicking up dust in the distance.
You I did see: plaid pants, black hat, black long coat. The staircase was narrow, steep and made of cement. Covered with dirt. Why I liked the ladder (that way, dirty and sad): because I knew of your other lives, I knew one in which you were not poor, in which you could have taken me to a better place. Unfortunately for me, in that other life you didn’t know me.
The urge of being together led us up to the door (small). The stairs and the door predicted a miserable room.
And how to access that other place, those other places where you are, or not. Being here and there is quite a mystery. Quite a gift is not to be for a while, for resting, for being not apart.
For now, I have that scene and these words (a bridge, the words). And the ladder.