Categories
Fiction

Москва

This is happening in an unnamed city with a river like a gash slashing it open, or at least that’s how we’re picturing it. A man and a woman who don’t know the local language are waiting for the metro in a half-built station. They’re talking about subway stations in Moscow. The man mentions the chandeliers and the whole grandiosity of the constructions, and the woman talks about the local dogs that take the subway regularly and actually know their way. It’s clear that neither of them has ever been to Russia, and they probably don’t plan to, but by the tone of their voices you can guess that every possibility is a shared dream. It’s funny to see so much future in their eyes because this is the last time they see each other. When you’ve already seen the end of the movie, the hero’s resolutions at the beginning sound ridiculous, even cute. You really think you’re going to save her that way? Awww.

It’s hard to trace the map of their journey, even though we’re making it up. Did they reach this city together? Anything is possible, so let’s say they come from opposite ends of the world. He arrived first, maybe just a few hours before her. Even though he knew it was still early for her to appear, he kept catching glimpses of people’s feet from the other side of the Arrivals door in hopes of recognizing her. They were so eager to get lost together that they couldn’t find their way to the hotel and a kind but monolingual taxi driver made the situation even worse, criss-crossing highways to the point that they no longer expected to get anywhere. But here they are, so they must have made it, eventually. So far, they’ve had fried eggs with salad for breakfast and red hot chicken for dinner. They’ve soothed their aching lips with sweet soy milk and kisses. It’s obvious that these are the happiest days of their lives—because we want it to be so. If you want, we can give them a humongous lantern parade and a nightly walk down a beautiful creek right in the middle of an avenue. We can make them so blissful that everyone wants their picture, and a guy with a guitar stops them on their way and asks them to sing along with him.

Look at them boarding the train now, so confident and hopeful. They lean against the window in silence, their eyes fixed on the immense river before plunging into the earth in search for another station. We made it all possible for them, but we don’t know what they’re thinking right now. In the future, when we leave them on their own to see what happens and they realize that they did not make it to Moscow or anywhere else together, they won’t know it either.

Categories
Poetry

Taper Cut

We were far,
and farther still
when you morphed
into a shape
I’d never seen before.

You shed long strands
of fine brown hair,
princess swan,
feathers floating by
still waters
revealing the end
of a long spell.

I didn’t know you that way—
I belonged to
some part of the dream
from which you woke up
when you became
lighter.

You didn’t recognize me
as you emerged
into the day—
you, new you,
taper cut you—

So I picked up the remnants
of your old winter self
and saved them for
another
night,
just in case
you ever dreamed of me
again.

Categories
Rant

Imitation of Life

Life is what happens when I play the ukulele.

The rest—wasting precious ticking hours inside a crowded bus, dreaming stupidly about love, feigning productivity in front of a computer screen—is just some cheap fake I got lots and lots of.

Categories
Rant

This Irrational Forlorn Feeling

Let me tell you what’s going on: I feel like I don’t exist. It’s not like I cannot feel my hands or see myself or anything like that, but there’s this notion that I’ve faded from my surroundings, namely from those who have surrounded me at any given point. I’m frantically looking for myself in other people’s memories, to no avail. It’s like I’m Stalin’s former best friend in a world where everyone’s Stalin.

I’ve been trying hard to convince myself that this feeling is entirely unfounded, but it’s hard to reconcile these two sides of my brain. The good side tells me that someday there will be someone who will not give up so easily on me, that there are people who actually listen to me and think of me from time to time. The bad side says “not true,” people talk to me when they’re bored, that’s all. Maybe I’ve got nothing substantial to offer. Maybe I’m fun like those little games you play when there’s nothing better to do, but of course, nobody’s ever heard of a memorable game of solitaire. Once again, there is nothing that proves this assertion, but the feeling’s there and it’s getting more and more difficult to ignore. It’s become a huge boulder with an engraving that says “YOU HAVE BEEN FORGOTTEN.”

Now, what can I do about this? I have no idea. Writing is a good way to attest to my existence, I think, but maybe it’s not like I want to do something in order to remain in the future as much as I want to know that I do remain somewhere other than my mirror at this moment. As for now, I’d love to find a way for me not to be on the verge of tears all the time. Okay, I’m off to the shrink.