Dear Brothers and Sisters!
Dear Enemies and Friends!
Why are we all so alone here?
All we need is a little more hope, a little more joy
All we need is a little more light, a little less weight, a little more freedom
If we were an army, and if we believed that we were an army
And we believed
That everyone was scared
Like little lost children in their grown up clothes and poses
So we ended up alone here
Floating through long wasted days
Or great tribulations
While everything felt wrong
Good words
Strong words
Words that could’ve moved mountains
Words that no one ever said
We were all waiting to hear those words
And no one ever said them
And the tactics never hatched.
And the plans were never mapped.
And we all learned not to believe.
And strange lonesome monsters loafed through the hills
wondering why
And it is best to never ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever wonder why
So tangle; Oh tangle us up in bright red ribbons!
Let’s have a parade
It’s been so long since we had a parade
So let’s have a parade
Let’s invite all our friends
And all our friends’ friends
Let’s promenade down the boulevards
With terrific pride
And light in our eyes
Twelve feet tall and staggering!
Sick with joy
With the angels there
And light in our eyes
Brothers and Sisters
Hope still waits in the wings
Like a bitter spinster
Impatient
Lonely
And shivering
Waiting to build her glorious fires.
I’s because of our plans man;
Our beautiful ridiculous plans!
Let’s launch them like careening jetplanes!
Let’s crash all our planes in the river!
Let’s build strange and radiant machines
At this Jericho waiting to fall.
Silver Mt Zion
Met the neighbor boy with the Wodehouse name whilst ill, today, clambering up the stairs on my way back from ballet. (With a fever of 38.6 °C and a scuffed pink pair of slippers in one hand.) Feeling hopelessly out of place here because no one understands, not really, not how excruciatingly exquisite everything can be. And I know I mustn’t be so sad. Mustn’t, mustn’t mustn’t. Stolen Henry’s old bomber jacket as a (hopeless) cure. Mustn’t be so cold in this indian summer heat, he says. Mustn’t, mustn’t, mustn’t. There are a lot of things I mustn’t do, you see. Either it’s ‘stop-all-this-nonsense-at-once’ or it’s ‘oh-you-poor-dear’ and I hate them both, hate them both so, so wretchedly it makes my skin burn and kindles a fire in my chest until I can’t stop myself crying. And I feel silly for crying. For looking like a wilted English rose on a side-path through the park.
The kitchen is completely devoid of milk. And this is a great tragedy because I am desperate for some tea, but I can’t seem to make it past my front door. (The one with the too-small keyhole that my key never fits.) Until it’s three in the morning and I realise I wasn’t made to miss things. Then it is three in the morning and I am marching like a Greek soldier in a phalanx of one off to conquer the dairy aisle of the grocer’s. (Then to come back and fight a battle against my front latch.) It seems all I do is worry, worry, worry and there isn’t any time for other things or other people. Some days it’s all only white, then the next it’s all only Cs and who knew eyes could ever seem so cruel? Even Alexandre just sits and stares, watching from the corner, doing nothing but looking on—devastated.
I am alone here, you see. Not even the moths will be my friends.
Suppose we were not meant to disappear, then? History itself has struggled against it, pasting itself to the pages of schoolbooks to make us remember. Are we meant to spend our entire existence dueling against our nihilophobia, against our own insignificance? Certainly, the brave thing to do is to accomplish greatness and cement ourselves into permanence? Heroes are known for their daring, for their boldness. But what about after the boldness? Are they still heroes in the quiet hours?
Hours when the coffee pot is shuddering on the kitchen counter and the sky is still grey. Hours before the mornings become too bright and everything’s properly awake. Hours when eyes are still bleary, skin is still warm and sleep-worn and pillow marks are still etched onto cheeks. What are heroes, then, just there? Perhaps heroes are actually born in quiet hours, staring silently out favourite windows at hurricanes called Irene. Or maybe even in having courage enough to stay between two arms.
You are right. We were not made for fading. But neither were we made for constant fearlessness. We are meant merely to appear vividly and wholly unabashedly to those who matter most.
Elly
P.S. Stay safe, please.
