Thine Own


You know those petty anonymous hours between night and dawn. Some people – perhaps the strange ones, perhaps the not so strange – label them under an Aristotelian scarcity. Just like it, they also belong to the Interim, of the sharing and of the belonging; the scarcity of a second mind, an alter architecture maybe not of more words but of another silence. To hang on to in between, at least a tad further from the fever of your own silence. There are some such hours when we are too little for the great solitude as much as throughout our life we hold it to be our comrade. Those sometimes, when sleep sweats your dreams until they become screams with low viscosity that sneak in the lower part of your chest, like secret animals on their way to the place they chose to go die. And the gasp that solidified our clay whistles through the tombs of our little graveyard. If you awaken, don’t look at the moon, don’t look at the sky, don’t stare at the deserted streets. They have nothing enough for your inside to fill up with and you are not enough to fill them up.

You will recall walking the same hours on the cobblestone of medieval cities with a suitcase at hand overflowed by shafts and holes. You will remember leaving, you will remember purging, you will remember trying. Not even once will you be able to hold yourself accountable for one entirely owned personal failure. The graves that deepen your breaths don’t fit in any bottle. And everything you miss, minute by minute, incessantly, will never be saved; in no tomorrow.

With the sun, with the people, you may forget; you may keep them, you may stamp on them, throw them, be found by them. You may be wanted, be begged for, they may return. You may listen to them and the sound of their lips may briefly blunt the great silence of your soul. Yet during these hours, the Interim ones; these hours that await in between the worlds, those worlds within the walls, you have nothing except the images of a different life. Perhaps a life of yore, far away from here. Together.

You have nothing more than dreams; dreams full of backsides.

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