Thursday, March 22, 2012
I don't believe in anything, except the rain and I believe in you, or I did. In us. We were Ben Lee and Claire Danes, until everything changed mid-kiss in New York. Suddenly, somehow, inside of time, within what must have been only a half of a second or half of that, we became your face in a frame on the wall with mine. Your lips high up on my cheekbone, your dancing hair and the sunshine in your eyes, and that smile I do and everything from that day were ours but we could not move our hands or smash the glass or climb down into the bed and cry.
I don't believe in anything, except that single moment before a leaf falls to the ground, before it is alone, before it is grey. That moment before the split, before the decay and I believe in you, or I did. In us, then, when we were young. I believe in the sun, before the clouds move in and I believe in the wind, even knowing that it will soon topple the leaf to the ground.
I don't believe in anything, except this moment and I will always believe in you.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
"We've been here before," she says.
"Of course," he replies. "We live here."
"No, not here. Not physically here in the bedroom, in the house. I mean this. You and me. We've been here."
"Hold my hand," he says. "Look in my eyes. I am telling you that we live here."
"You don't understand," she says.
He draws her closer, their eyes, their mouths now inches apart. "This is our bedroom. Here. This is our home. We live in this house, this two-story house," he says. "We live on this street with trees and barking dogs and trash cans. We live in this town with people and buildings and traffic. We live in this world. Together, I mean. You and me in this world."
"Yes, in this world," she says. "Here. In this town with a river down the middle and a train that goes underground. In this street with a crossing guard on the corner. This house with two stories."
He caresses her neck and her cheek. They kiss and they undress and they make love on the bed and they sleep.
In the morning there is coffee and a shower, no breakfast and work. In the day there are text messages and an e-mail. That night there is dinner and television and wine and in the bedroom there is a feeling and there are assurances and again there is love.
Saturday, March 03, 2012
Look up into the sky, not at the sun, don't ever look into the sun, not at the clouds, they are for dreamers; look deep into the very bluest part of the bluest part of the sky. This is the opposite of lonely. This is a boy in black rollerskates with yellow laces and nothing and nobody except his favourite song and a t-shirt with numbers on it. This is a man, with children asleep, in underpants eating cereal with nobody and nothing except a foreign movie and a cider. It's a girl drawing pictures of people and flowers alone in her room in silence in bliss. It's a woman in a field on her back with a book in the grass in the warmth on her own with nothing but time and nobody. There, look even through the blue, beyond the sky and back again, you will see an ant out of the line on the bricks with a crumb on his back. This is the opposite of lonely.