Polyamory

I spent a sleepless night yesterday. At 9:00, I decided to talk to someone I’d known a few years ago, ordered some drinks although I was planning to sleep early. It was a small re-union. We share a secret not one I’m proud of, but we can laugh about it. That’s life. It isn’t always beautiful nor poetic, marked with specks of dust and old stains you forgot to wash off.

I woke up at 6:00, prepared for work for three hours on my desk. The work went smoothly because I’d prepared for it. That’s a lesson I’ve learned recently: if you prepare yourself, you might actually succeed. Simple, but true.

I feel that my mind has shifted again, like the land slowly shaping itself to find balance. Now I’m interested in telling several stories, perhaps all at once. Ready, set, go. (Which one is going to reach eternity?) Kind of how God started it, or so I imagine. But there’s no longer a longing for answers. My mind isn’t haunted by the same questions anymore. I’m simply looking for a story to tell. I take a step closer, observe it with my own eyes, touch it to feel its surface, its texture, its scent, and without judgment, I place words on the sensations it gives me. Like a horny slut? Perhaps that’s what I am, but I take pleasure in knowing the soul and not the body. 

I look at my bookshelf, selfishly, stacked with unfinished books because I get easily distracted. Okay, how about this one? I pick a title. Where did I stop? “The Artist”  Then I say, “Hello.”

I don’t expect him to reply, but a day later he does.

“It’s been a long time. How have you been?”

“I think I am better. Started writing and all. Are you still painting?”

“Yes, actually. I did a small show in a red-brick building a few months ago.”

“That’s splendid. Did you have fun?”

And then I see where it goes. I try not to idealize myself, staying in realm of the real me. Don’t be too poetic, cause it feels like a trap, Like I’m trapped inside a French film, unable to say what’s truly on my mind, because if I do I will  keep spitting out rubbish that makes the film all too real, and nothing worth watching in theaters. And if the story dies, it’s ok, because most of the stories I see on television are dead. I don’t feel it happening, and so I am not interested in them. 

Anyway, summer has ended, and now it’s winter, and no one seems to talk about how autumn is gone, that brief season when we could still wear light clothes and walk under a clear sky, feeling the breeze. I miss autumn. Don’t we all ? But who cares? As long as we have air conditioners, the problem is solved.