I tried to write that which I don’t know in a way that perhaps
you’d be able to explain to me. I tried to set apart the
point constants of space, the lost, the distant, the unknown,
from the only axiom of time: change.
I tried to comprehend how the end brings only something
that we are not yet, how every start is bloodstained but innocent
due to its amnesia.
I tried to tell you that lost, distant, and unknown is something
just because it is that way already, now, and still – but never
for what time will do to us. Then, what’s lost will always be
someone else’s lost – and we don’t care. Then, what’s unknown
will be the equations that didn’t impress us – and we don’t care.
I tried to tell you that we never just forget, it’s only that our lives
don’t have merely one protagonist. We are neither a novel
nor a drama, we are short stories, read by different pairs of eyes each time;
and I tried to explain to you what I see under this cliché and
it’s not that I forgot, I just didn’t see it.
And I tried to tell you that from time to time, the white in between the short stories
emits a scent before it gets here
and that my life keeps on drowning in that scent.
And I know that there’s always a start for the person who will be me
and I know there’s always an end for myself. And I tried to apologize to you,
for the abandonment of the self that you are now, for the fact that
I will be something lost for a little while, something lost, distant, and unknown
– and that perhaps you might care.
I tried to tell you to come find me when you too change into the self that
will be you. I tried, until I realized the obvious – you won’t care.