the seeds, the trees

"But once in a while there's a great dynamite-burst of flying glass and brick and splinters through the front wall and somebody stalks over the rubble, seizes me by the throat and gently says, 'I will not let you go until you set me, in words, on paper.'" – Richard Bach

Month: June, 2015

Rocking Bird

“Rocking bird, I’m tired.”

“Why?” you ask.

“Because,” I say, “this world is too big and too small, and I need to choose if I will be Big or Small, and I can’t decide which one would be best. Sometimes I’m not sure I can be either, and then I’ll just be In Between, and what’s left in the world for In Between? Nothing to be bothered with.”

“Give it time.”

“No. Now. Big or Small? Big or Small? A lifetime of choices, and I can’t make just one?”

“If you want to be Big, be Big, but don’t be loud. And if you want to be Small, be Small, but don’t be so quiet you get crushed. That is all I know. I’m Small, you see.”

“But not quiet?”

“No. Listen. Not quiet.”

“I will decide tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow. There is always tomorrow until there isn’t.”

“Be quiet.”

“I can’t. I’m Small, remember?”

“Maybe In Between isn’t so bad. I’m tired, remember?”

“If you’re tired, you may as well be Dead. You want to sleep, sleep always, and you are Dead. No difference.”

“I don’t know how to be alive then.”

“Wake up. You must decide.”

“I’m tired. Maybe Dead isn’t so bad.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

The afternoon I stop loving you

I don’t feel as much as I thought I would in all the places my heart is.

I wake with a headache. The 50-dollar nut. We lay and laugh at each other. Your friend sends you a picture of her face. I feel vaguely jealous. I shower. You dump a handful of cold water on my head while you stand by the sink. Fuck, what the fuck, I wasn’t even gonna get my hair wet. What the fuck, I say. You scoff at me, blowing air from your nose and mouth, look at me like I’m the lamest, saddest thing, tell me to grow the fuck up.

I dress, come downstairs. You’re sitting in the green armchair rolling a joint, your roommate on the couch next to you, texting. I make you coffee to go. I let your dog out. Sit on the arm of the couch, check my phone charging out of the wall, time 10:03.

You’re late. You better hurry, I say. You call me a bastard. Shut the fuck up, you fucking bastard. God, you’re a bastard. You think I don’t know that? Seriously, shut, the, fuck, up. Fucking bastard.

Your roommate laughs. I feel very small and ashamed and as soon as you’re done, the tears come, but I don’t let them go, like I’m 10 years old and my dad is letting me know exactly how stupid I am.

Then something fades. Quickly, like clouds dissipating. Like everything between us is weather, a season passed.

I haven’t told you I’ve stopped loving you. You’re on your way to New York for some bachelor party and although I do not love you anymore, I do not hate you. I do not dislike you, at all. So I will wait until you get back, after you have a good time inside the dark and glittering bars.

I imagine you taking it well. I imagine you agreeing with me when I say, We cannot dwell on what is not. You’ll say something stupid like, Go kick some dick without me. It will be then that I’ll want to touch you, that I’ll feel like the stupidest thing in the world.