So, the thing about curses is,
When they are cursed, they learn to love
They all love out of suffering their eternities –
Merely out of desperation,
Of having known misery.
Living with cursed people offers you the bliss of being surrounded by the grace of good hope.
I know you, you’re my mirror self,
My soulmate. I have not given up loving you.
You know it too. Maybe not yet.
You’re arrogant not to admit it thinking of me just yet.
Years will have passed, you will have returned home streets.
With your fancy dollars and shiny tipped American boots
You’ll think of what happened to that sad little girl who thought, “she loves me!”
“Is she so even now?” you’ll wonder sarcastically.
Last month her new bestseller was criticized about being too vulgar? Not too hopeful.
You’ll decide, you’ll have to remember to meet some very old school-times friends,
And remember to drop in a line in between some fancy quote,
“You know the author, was she that vulgar back, you know, at school?”
Then add a little modestly, “You’ll all will know better…classmates after all.”
“Classmates hardly. She was this sad little kid trying to pretend of being brave,”
She sneezes into her napkin. Then nods curtly. Gracious.
Your buddy tugs at your arm. He means, you’ve got to nod too.
She’s his old school darling, and you nod, remembering.
Your beer is slowly warming up. You rarely do beer anymore.
But these old school reunions, so irresistible, drinking beer isn’t silly looking anymore…
You remember the conversation going on. You ask her, “You mean she isn’t brave?”
“She is now.” Big eyes. “Oh well, she changed. About after the time we all left school.”
Oh, her friend said. She brightens up. “She wrote me down on her list of acknowledgements.”
“Well, there are a lot of rumors.” You clear your throat.
“Being a woman and writer at the same time doesn’t mean she’s a lesbian, alright!”
“Oh oh! Defensive!” This was a three way argument. You spectate.
“Well, I remember she was friends with you for a while, isn’t that so?”
Sharp cuts on your memory, refreshing the old wound.
“I don’t remember her very well. Barely used to talk, you know…” Your neck arches.
“Hmm, maybe.” She sniffles her nose. “Maybe.”
“But she wasn’t a bad person. Maybe, just unheard.”
“That’s an understatement. I think she was just stupid.”
You gull down your thought, yeah she was, she trusted people blindly.
I know you’ll want to know it more now than ever. If “she really did love me?”
You’re my shadow self. You’ll rise to find what happened to her. That girl.
That insolent little girl who promised so strongly of being different from the others,
Ending up doing the very same things. You were frustrated and gave up on her.
Now you feel bad. You weren’t any bit generous with her either.
For causes which are null and void in your head atop.
The night you drive by your old house one last time,
You pass by the spot you had come forward to drop her by.
The sun was in your eyes, you didn’t want to go further.
She’d turned back to look you in your eye, asking you to come further. You chose not to.
She kept going on. She was silent and shaken, like a whimpering poisoned lamb.
It had been the final straw, but you never knew. She gave up believing that she can love.
You want to stay now, find her and ask. But she is the hardest thing to find. Everyone tries so.
Rumors also say that she lives at some hermitage, and some say in disguise.
So many of these you don’t know what to believe. You may never find her.
But you won’t forget her even. She will be this question in your head.
Despair not, you’ll meet her again in your next life,
You’re soulmates. You are meant to meet eventually anyway.
You’ll wonder “If she really, really did love me, she should have told me so!”
But did you ever question, from what little you know of her, do you think she knew it
Well enough to know what she doesn’t want to covet something because she likes it?
Weren’t you making yourself look too good to be out of her league and all?
You knew she was buying it all. And yet you sold her some more.
You called her paranoid. You called her schizoid to live in detachment from civilization.
You pushed her away and yet she was so loyal, so nice all the time, wasn’t she?
Oh, you thought it was all just a show for you, didn’t you?
You thought she was just another bigtime girls convent bitch!
You walk up the hill, she used to talk so much about before,
Jokes about going jogging around the peripheries, in new Reeboks.
Oh, those exaggerations of hers, and she thought anyone would buy it.
You catch a little boy whistling a very old song somehow still familiar.
The author asked you to listen to it, once ages ago,
And the ghost of the song stayed stuck.
The servant boy was going shopping for his owners.
The list showed a packet of Gold Flake lites.
You had to ask now. And yeah, here lives the author. No coincidence.
You let the boy pass. You stand at the door. And wait.
And wait.
You are my shadow-self. You won’t wait long.
In my case, I wouldn’t have.
I’d probably just walk away.
Knowing we have eternity together.
Cliffette's Journal 