by Sine Qua Non
A year past and I nurse the same feeling: a catastrophic uncertainty of the self.
Or do I?
After having fallen, imagined having fallen, landed, crashed, broken, died, and lived again, I’d like to think that although catastrophe is certain, the uncertainty is no longer as catastrophic as it seems. Or that the catastrophe should be something to dread. And neither is the uncertainty.
These are the loves that I have sowed.
First: he who conjures an illusion of me and sleeps with it, holds tight and wakes up to a truth he will refuse to let go of. He believes in me but does not recognize us because there are others who leave patterns of affection on his sheets. Sometimes I wonder which version of me he expects to wake up to in the morning. I have learned to love him beyond walls and beyond covers, in slits of steel strings and seances of smoke. He does not say his love out loud, he only traces a promise of paradise on my skin, seals it with his lips.
Second: he who seeks me in hours when nobody will see him looking, waits for sunrise in my arms and then denies me in daylight, swears his love is pure with eyes closed but will not allow our intertwined fingers illuminated – our love is hidden in envelopes, coded characters, visible only to our faith yet kept alive by being the unfaithful ones. In silences, the machines that whirr at our fingertips reach for the other. And while we are there, we should not be. He says he loves me, the one he does not choose. I struggle to believe that it should be enough, that it should make sense.
Third: he who is distant and cannot be held, we nurse a love we are never sure will ever be there. No te muevas, quiero conservar este instante asi. Si que puede estar quieta la felicidad. And, still, we remain.
To have given so much of the self and having received so little of what is usually expected from having loved, I find myself beyond being broken. That the breaking is the best remedy to a lack of sense of self. The crumbs of being are the best traces one could leave to make being found possible.
You have all broken me down into shards that can snuggle into crevices you do not even know exists. My love persists.
And every part of me that has died will find the heaven it deserves, beyond this lifetime, beyond this Earth. That is if heaven does not find me first.
I am open universe, I am ready for your murderer to take my life.