Maia Nebula!

We were going to be friends. I was absolutely sure about that. I was going to teach him songs. I was going to go visit his father and play with him instead. I was going to write a book that he might have liked. A book about llamas. He was going to think of me as weird yet cool. One day he would trust me enough to ask me a question. Any question would be fine. Twenty years from now, I was going to call his father on the phone and say “I told you.”

Now that the deluge has turned dreams into debris, I think I should still keep my promise, even if slightly different. Twenty years from now, I am going to call his father on the phone and say “I’m still here.”

They sleep right on the floor. At least that’s how the futon has come to feel now that it’s old and flat. The alarm goes off at 6:15. He moans and twitches his mouth, trying to cling to the last bits of slumber, but when he feels her waist shifting under his arm, he has no option but to open his eyes and watch. Her getting up is a slow progression of body parts emerging bit by bit from a familiar underworld. Her left hand rubs her face rather violently and then brushes back her ruffled hair. A sudden jerk pulls her torso up like a puppet that’s been suddenly picked up from the bottom of a chest. The subtle muscles in her arms bulge tensely under her weight. Her arched back plays tug-of-war against tiredness until her head falls forward. Now her breasts droop over the folds of her belly. Sometimes —when she lies on her back, for instance— they look like perfect domes made of pudding. He loves their malleability, how soft their skin feels—but wait, she is already hurling herself up and stumbling dizzily into the day. From here he can see the stubble on her legs. If he looked up, he would be able to catch a glimpse of cellulite dimples up her shorts. One step, then another, and she’s gone.

When she sleeps, all wrinkles and bulges are smoothed down, safely concealed under the covers. He runs his hand down her back and tries to explain to himself how the fragility of this hidden topography becomes a revelation of strength every morning. She’s never given a thought to those first minutes of her waking life, but as soon as she disappears it becomes clear that he can’t wait for the next day to watch the spectacle all over again.

I hate it when they try to showcase “all sizes” in pictures of women (because they’re being all condescending, “embracing” “real women”) but still turn their faces into some sort of unrecognizable photoshop blob. The skin, our shield, our battlefield, is being reduced by the media to this pristine untouched satin sheet. Thus, even if they have the guts to display you—you with the saggy boobs, you with the bulky hips—, all signs of individuality (hair, scars, wrinkles) will be erased from you. We’re encouraged to achieve perfection through the removal of ‘blemishes’ because our skin is not meant to tell stories. Not only are we still lacking voice out there but our bodies do too.

The certainty of the end has got to be the saddest thing. Or I don’t know. I’ve heard of people who remain serene when they know there is nothing left to do, no solution to their life-threatening condition, and they just let go. Letting go is important. But how to do it is the question.

Once I felt invincible about the possibilities that love offered, no matter how hard it seemed to keep it going. It was in my hands. Distance was a terrible obstacle, but I was sure I had the means to overcome it. But that was only one variable I could control against thousands of others. Time and lack of reciprocity, for instance. Or let’s not call it that way, but rather… much more enthusiasm on one side than the other. One side believes in love as a miracle to be conquered against all odds, the other thinks of love as merely incidental. It works right here right now where we found it or it doesn’t work at all. Unfortunately (the word is an understatement), I cannot offer right here right now to anybody —unless they were willing to come here, which would of course be absolutely wonderful—. And there’s no word about alternatives to make paths intersect. Perhaps my brief presence does not elicit any sort of hope nor craving for a longer future together from anybody.

So here I am, letting go. At least I’m not clinging to it desperately. One lesson I’ve learned before is that cats that cling to curtains sooner or later rip them with their claws. However, I still wish life were a tad more benevolent towards me in terms of creating opportunities to experience shared domesticity. Oh well. Someday, I guess.