Sunday, November 15, 2009

Boston, New Zealand

(Welcome To The Jungle, 2009)

I'm a really bad liar. I'm also really bad at this. Picking up the shards of my favorite cup, I wonder if someone had just died. My pocket vibrates and it's my mother, this is too weird. I let the phone pulsate in my hand until my palm is numb.


It seems that life is random, and my broken cup, my favorite cup, is a lost cause, and not a cause at all since it has nothing to do with anything. I once tripped and fell over, broken my pen in my favorite pants, and soiled my pocket with ink. When I looked to see what had caused this accident, there was nothing, when I questioned the stability of my legs, they looked fine, they felt fine (besides from a slow-forming bruise above my right knee(the bad one)). I looked around me to see if anyone had seen my embarrassing moment, and a young woman smiled at me as she towered above. She came closer, and just tripping over my fallen body, she stepped over me, and left. Two years later, I would meet her again, and upon our reunion, I would say, and she would say, and then I would ask, and she would say, yes, we heard it all before, it was fate!

The date went well, and we would continue seeing each other for a few months, and then I moved away, and the letters we promised each other would dissolve, and soon we were reduced to commenting on each other's internet pictures, and then just "liking" them, and finally, the once a year (twice a year for both ways) there were the happy birthday messages, and a how-are-you-doing,-it's-been-a-while.

I think back on the day I fell for no reason, and where I once put a red string, a string of destiny, I now put a solid piece of dark matter. I stopped writing love songs, and I started to write about the stars and black holes. I could be found quoting Hawkin's, and I do I really mean impression of his computer voice. People will laugh, and eventually they will sigh since they all, including myself, hope for his health.

A rock once fell from the sky, fell a foot before me, and I realized that if I didn't stop smoking cigarettes the day before, then I would've been stroked by that falling rock from the sky (the sky is falling?). I stopped all my bad habits from that day on, and slowly over the months, I regained most of them, including a few extra pounds. The next day, the woman I had left, appeared at my door, and she said in a whisper to my ear, "surprise".


How do I hold on to these things, how do I call you friend, before an enemy, how do I know to step foot into my fading future before me, and when shall the sea decide to not roll back? When will the greatest monuments fall, and when shall we forget each others names? Only when you think of me again, that random, that fateful occurrence, o'eureka,, and (one) one-thousand, for one is the lonely number since five, four, three, two, one...


1 comment:

Michelle Kuran said...