March, 24, 2016
… written on the 903 …
I slowly begin to know you.
Naturally, I know I’ve been claiming to know you since the beginning. First as a ruse to get closer to you… You tried to teach me, but when tired by my lack of perception, you bluntly gave me the answers to that quiz… well… I didn’t know you back then.
After that, I thought knew you again. Perhaps as a plot to keep you around. To satisfy the need I had, or thought I had, to get more of you, week after week… I pretended to know you, and I fooled you and even myself, but I didnt know you back then.
Time passed. Years after, I hear from you, and that old flame which was very faint, though never fully extinguished, came back, revived by dreams and unfullfilled desires. Perhaps the flame of “the one that got away” you called it once, in an outrageously corny cliche over an orangey beer. Oh, I knew you that time! and I even was brave and foolish enough to declare myself victorious this time, the conqueror of your mysteries! except I didn’t.
– Lets live an adventure ! we yelled.
and we did. except that we are not adventurers as much as we love to dream of adventures. I didnt know you back then.
I am convinced the greatest push for inspiration comes from small month by month rooms overlooking the waterworks. And I’d be incredulous and very much mortified if I were told it isnt true that the greatest symphonies and the most amazing poems of love were written in places like these. Written in places like these and read in beautiful homes of the great american suburbia. Read by accomplished women as they kiss their husbands goodnight and go to bed, reading their forbidden fantasies by their side light.
It is funny to think about the writer, and the reader.How they relate, and how apart they are and how they might both pause at the same sentence, on the same comma, one because her husband twists and turns, the other to hurl a shoe at a roach that tries to claim rights to the apartment. And it can’t be any other way.
And as time went by, and I kept lying to myself, pretending to know your every thought and more importantly, pretending to know mine, I suddenly lost both and found myself deposed, I took exile in this little corner chock full of inspiration. I want for nothing. And yet you come back to me, disturbing me in my tranquil days, when I look out the window, and the smokestack belches fumes that curl up in the air in a hipnotizing pattern. Decadence has a mistery to it we love to imagine but we hate to live. The streets are cold.
I love you.
