Recently words have been coming to me, mimicking the ease that I am used to with photos. Words, sentences, streams of thought. Here are a few:
I see dead people and my heart jumps into my stomach, I feel sick. It is hungry for why, who, how. Bullet wound; a stagnate pool of glistening ground frames the head. I see the cops but no solution. Where do you start looking for a criminal in a country with one of the highest murder rates in the world? You don’t. More contemplation goes into the purchase of the coffin. Alive today, dead tomorrow, as if you were never so in touch with your own mortality. South Africa makes you feel alive because you witness death. At home we are so far from death we forget to live.
I am trying to silence the cliches, but they are blowing up inside my mind as I think of ways to deal with him leaving. It’s been six months in the making, irreversible. We’re both straight ahead on that road to progress, to adulthood. Independence. Only problem is our roads are separated by hemispheres, and if he stays now he will be away from his for far too long. ‘True love prevails’: cliche, cliche, cliche, but I feel like we keep testing our love without giving it enough time and space to prosper. I feel like our love is in a war with time and all we’re left with is uncertainty. All I can be certain is I don’t want him to leave. I am waiting on an impossible miracle, but I guess thats what miracles are anyways. Faith in him, faith in me, in us. Trust is my fall back. I’m just left praying those invisible arms catch us, that trust is a reality even if not a physical one, cause for now, come Saturday, my only physical reality is going to be tears. And what reality is going to be left when that salt and water runs out?
That red flashing light has my forehead on a leash. Present in two worlds at once, but neither at the same time. Long distance love turns participants into jugglers, tennis players, attempting to go pro and wanting to quit the league all at one time. It is a life of trying to be good at something your not sure you want to be good at. Temporary is the only idea that produces light at the end of the tunnel, or maybe that’s the physical love trying to find its way back into your being. I keep wanting to race to the end, to the light, only to consistently remember the significance of journeys through dark.