The grass began to grow back sooner than expected, but by then they had already fled to places where they could maintain the illusion of living on a parallel timeline. Names had been scratched off phonebooks, and lovers they had relinquished in the middle of the night had all but melted into an unreliable mesh of fingers and tongues. At random times they stopped mid-step and wondered what it would be like to go back and start anew, or what if it had never happened—but it was too late. And yet, they wondered.
Author: Olavia Kite
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
—Langston Hughes
There probably isn’t much merit in promising the future to somebody. After all, the future is as stable as Io’s surface. What is truly remarkable is when you meet someone whose company you really enjoy but who doesn’t want to promise anything beyond what’s already there, and you’re an idiot going about with your stupid romantic ideals, and you act all apocalyptic and tell them you know what get lost, I need my promises and you’re not giving any, and you go your merry way and probably get to hear what you wanted to hear from someone else eventually but sooner or later all the dreamy wooing explodes in your face quite inexplicably, and you become the downcast type kicking pebbles when by chance you run into this person again and you find out that they don’t hate you, and you ask them why, can’t you see I’m an idiot, and they’re like no, you’re not, I think you’re pretty cool actually, and you understand that the future’s indeed as stable as Io’s surface but if there were such thing as the ability to trace a line and decide who to walk it with it’d be that person, and you’re absolutely sure you wouldn’t want to be an idiot ever ever again lest you screw up this teeny tiny chance that life’s just given you, because even if your own stupid romantic ideals have exploded in your face and you still have some heavy luggage to deal with, you can’t deny how incredibly lucky you are. Now that is something to ponder about.
I did not know how to play the game when I was a child, and still don’t. I don’t know how to be human. I thought I’d somehow learned with time and devoted imitation, but then I discovered that I lacked one fundamental trait: love. Nonetheless, I’ve managed to stumble into other people’s paths and walk by their side as though riding a roller coaster, my chest pounding dizzy with dreams. Were my feelings back then real or was it yet another simulacrum for me to feign normalcy? I’ll never know—I don’t think I’ll try again, lest they find out what I really am: a hollow soul. An island. A horrible amorphous formation of dry rocks where no lost bird would ever want to land. I was banished into this cave in order to prevent more people from getting hurt, and yet I’ve slashed a few curious passersby with claws I’ve never been able to locate on my body. I watch them bleed to death and I don’t understand what’s going on, I don’t understand the warm liquid splattered on my face. Every new presence is a menace. I’m not afraid of them but of what’ll happen to them if they come any closer. Now you’re looking at me with that compassionate face, confident that your infinite mercy will bring change to this mess. You’re not the first but I do wish you were the last. I’ve heard “I don’t bite” all too many times. I know full well that you don’t, but I do. If I were you I’d run away. Now run. Run.