SANDCASTLES

In the realm of the brain, we punish ourselves for the doings of our much under-appreciated biological settings. If we could only be kinder to our irremediable nature, walk hand in hand with our deepest desires, the relatable and the obscure, without care for how much our fellow life-warriors are willing to endorse; for, to some of us, that might as well compare to a zombie apocalypse. No licence to lust, so my fellow fighters in this crusade for survival can justify the lack of action within the paragraphs of their own dissatisfaction. Can we blame ordinary life? I cannot help but wonder about the unfairness of such a proposition. Life is life, wonderfully raw, tough life. And then, there are our decisions, and us standing by the fork of a path unwilling to move left or right, even though nothing is meant to remain as it is, to stay still. While the plants grow, the rocks give in to erosion, and the water turns into grey-shaded clouds; consequently, and ever so gently, purple rain will fall. We have landed here to feel and decay, hopefully with grace. One apple a day keeps the doctor away. Stretching, drinking water, sunscreen. I find it easier to care for you unconditionally now that you are gone and live in my head at arm’s length. From there, right where you are, I freely adore you and our history with its subjective length. I use it all at my convenience, my own, now that you are a two-dimensional colour in my imagination, where we are both very kind to each other, building sandcastles by this coastline, forever submitted to erosion.

Girlfriends. vignette from Twelve O’Clock-Tales and After-Hours Thoughts, the book.