six degrees to the left, eighteen feet out, four steps out of your way to make it to the sweet spot. These numbers don’t make sense, do they? They never do, they’re all made up, because they’re always made up. But we go with these numbers and we try to make something of these numbers because we came up with them. Somehow.
In the same way that numbers are made up, so are ideas and theories, thought processes, and even money. These things I think in my head, they are all parts of my imagination, and sometimes I fear that even you are a figment of such. Number me here, touch me there, feel the chill of the sun, the warmth of the breeze. I want to die on a sunspot, I think to myself.
Somewhere warm, I’d like to go. Somewhere without the cold, I’d like to stay. Somewhere with you would be the ideal, but I am trying to figure out whether or not you are real. Ahh, here goes again my daily spiel. On a happy little reel. Of filmographic glory, of photoconscious memory, we are writing our story.
Ahh, I think to myself. You must be real, unlike these numbers with which I count myself to sleep. The cold, cold night that I reluctantly open up to. In these moments I think of the sunspots, and I wonder if it will become my sin spot, wherein I will be embraced by lust and love, and all things relating to warmth.
Reality. Reality is real, it is warm, it is embrace. Numbers, what do they reveal? They are facts, factoids, truth, capital T truths. Realism is truth. But it is not reality. Numbers represent truth, but it is not real. It is cold, and it is unyielding. It is unreal.
When you act cold, what does that become? What are you, where are you, who are you when you advance towards me with those distant eyes, blank, blank expression and calculated steps? I wonder what words will come out of your mouth, but I realize that no words can be spoken when it is not in reality. I am in a daze as my gaze is fixated on one single state
of mind.
That is you, and I hope to never wake
from this dream.
Bohemian sunrises, Moroccan sunsets, sweet afternoons of tiger lilies and shallow breezes.
When I awake, I am on a ring, on the fourth dimension, a pale blue and dark, vivid orange. It is so cold here, and the skies are no longer sunny, but pitch black. I am scared, and I call out your name, I call out all the names, I count numerous names, and I remember that this is not reality. I am on a lifeless platform, but my reality lies in the warmth. Next to you.
