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Revision II
Return She has eyesights of deep-sea fish, almost completely blind. She lay in the center of the hall, like a lifeless corpse. The calacatta tile floor is like an icy serenade to her, only makes the fire burn within. She quietly flows under the thinnest of ice, awaiting the gentle touch of sun. She rolls her head to where he’s at. He stands in the corner, awkwardly. His upper lip twitches a little when he tries to squeeze a V. Her eyes are like broken mirrors to him, the fragments of vanished memories reappear into his mind and reflect back onto the glasses he’s wearing, etches of those blurry, untold stories. He flusters, and eyes averts immediately, the blank white wall clears his face to its usual vacant and staring.
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What seems complete isn’t a completion. For years, I was looking for Mr. Right to complete my body and I had thought God created me out of a part of Mr. Right. I was looking and seeking, dancing and singing. I tried all kinds of forms to be close to the being who potentially completes the missing part of me. I came across myriad souls and bodies, and none of them had ever completed me, though they all entered my body with the will to complete me.
Then, she came along in my journey of finding another half. She completed me without entering my body. I invited her to my soul, we traveled through each other’s universe through an entrance to the black hole. She is the existence of my universe and she is a woman. She is the mother of our world, yet the whole time, we were looking for a father. Writing exercises:
Third Person Present - Philosophical - who is the narrator? Flesh tatters into pieces as it is on the way to completion. Each temporary union with Mr. Wrong tears a part of their being, yet they still don’t know why. Soul is just another word to them. First Person Past - Close I tattered into pieces as I was on the way to completion. Each temporary union with Mr. Wrong tore a part of my being, yet I still don’t know why. Soul is just another word to me. Second Person Past - Detached You tattered into pieces as you were on your way to completion. Each temporary union with Mr. Wrong tore a part of you being, yet you still don’t know why. Soul is just another word to you. I exit the gate, I come across three young people at St. Marks Place. Two boys and one girl. I think they are around the same age as I am until I hear one of the boys say.
“ I can’t wait to turn 21, yo.” 21, he says. Her third date with him happens around Christmas. Her favorite time of the year to get lost in New York city. Winter seems to her such a genderless time. It is impossible to tell little boys from little girls underneath their heavy coats and wrapt in colorless hats and scarfs. It makes her look at people in their all-consuming parkas and wonder, what if there’s no such thing as men and women?
“As a gentleman,” he intercepts her glance, “I should drive you home.” They approach his parked Toyota on the street somewhere in Astoria, Queens. The color of my early 20s is like the sky in New York City in late autumn and it is close to the color gray. Though you can still find a trace of life through the washed out sky, but soon it will fade out in the colorlessness of eternity.
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I am ocean to you, and you only see the surface of me. You praise the beauty of my wave whenever you come to see me. You ask me to be gentle with you as you pour your darkness into my heart. You say to me, secrets belong to the sea. Then, you leave me alone amidst your unspoken stories. I consume them all. Am I made of water or tears? I wonder. 1. To think, means to be in solitude. We were born to face the world alone, our parents were there only to give guidance. Regardless of how one cannot be physically apart from another, we are still alone. 14.
I am not attracted to men, I find them interesting. Somehow, all my stories are about men. |
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