I tried to imagine what I would say to him if we were ever to inhabit the same space and time. Three years and it has never happened. The conversations I’ve had with him inside my head sometimes overshadow the ones that actually occurred. He is always evasive, albeit articulate, even when I fantasize about our incomprehensibly impossible coexistence.
He has disappeared again. I still have his book. I doubt the reality of our story. I fear it has been a carefully structured and appeasing lie, as he is. I doubt the desires at play and the drive that’s brought us here: nowhere. If someone erased all my memories of him what would remain? A series of stories that’d seem fictitious, nothing more. He succeeded in infiltrating the idiotic part of my subconscious, the one that still believes his life impacted mine in some meaningful yet complicated way.
Whether we wish to acknowledge it or not, we always choose the people that surround us, just as we choose the ones that don’t. Rejection is a choice, but we only cite it as such when we’re the ones enforcing it. We’ve all given birth to islands where we exile the unwanted ones; the souls we never believed were related to us. The ones whose senses never intertwined with ours in any of the universes we occupy.
Then there are those whose form we amalgamated with but whose song was in the wrong key. The ones whose melody intercepted ours but ended up distorting.
These are the souls that become art. For what is art if not a graveyard of lives that could have been but never was.
We create so as not to disappear. We externalize desire into notes, images and words so that we are not consumed by it. Desire is the disease and the cure; the prison and the key.
I’ve been running for years now, at alarming speeds. I’ve come across both miracles and woes. They taught me the same lesson. They showed me who I am.
It’s not the life we’ve lived we’ll have to answer for, but the soul that we have forged.