farewell

Is this a small fragment in time, or a whole infinity in just one tiny fragment of time, or are these moments insubordinate to time?

I need time to be aggressively deprived of its freedom to be anything it wishes or lasting as much as. I need it in heavy chains.

Whome can I punish, and how, for this slimy feeling - but time?

Those wood crackling sounds coming from the ugliest fireplace, hanging from a ceiling, in the middle of this huge, empty space, made a dissonant wind in my mind. As if the whole composition of this whole image was spiced by sudden, but warm, repetitive sounds of decaying wood, rounding off the mood with gloomy, and simultaneously, soothing music.

It was saying “it should fall apart, it should fade away, so you would be warm”.

How ungrateful am I to find this whole setup so repulsing...

I couldn’t look at him. I was kneeling for a while, and felt nothing but pain of the mentioned wind in my head and the pain of nothingness. This fucking time is standing still. To rest? To imprison me? Is everything around me mocking me?

This thought confirmed how selfish and petty I am.

I prefer darkness and cold over warmth and brightness. Especially the ones from the fire, it always got me upset. Maybe it’s the eerie sound that’s a part of it all.

Why do thoughts enter into some kind of super-charge, into ecstasy, while the time stands still? It’s a punishment. It must be. Everything that emerges while I am trapped in motionless time. Everything that overwhelmed me in that moment (or are they moments?). That is a punishment worthy of my petty life. My petty thoughts. “May they eat you, grind you and drive you crazy until you fall apart”.

He lay on his back, and let out his last breaths along that stupid crackling sound coming from the ugliest hanging fireplace. They were so impossibly in sync.

There was another moment exactly like this one, ten years ago, at this very place, when his breaths became one with those burning sounds. I was in a different kind of excitement then, but I remember the same thought I had now. “This is impossible.” I am witnessing the impossible, perfect synchronicity between them. And how can it be that the moment is repeating itself? Are these two moments of perfect synchronicity the annunciation, and a conclusion? Of everything in between? Of all those times the fire was burning, and I didn’t hear it, or him breathing, and me not even realizing he was? What was in that space in between these perfections? A lot of imperfections? A lot of hidden perfections?

What was time doing in that space, between those two perfect moments? Did the prick stand still, or was it doing some kind of spirals? It wasn’t running forward, that’s for sure. “Here, you small-minded human. There are some more divine moments for you, we have extra.”

Am I grateful? Am I at ease it is over? Am I sad, and is that emotion enough for this reflecting scenery?

That hideous flame that illuminated this empty room with a soft light, forced me to look down at his face. He was splendent. He was always beautiful. The light hasn’t deprived him of his beauty, neither did the shortage of air in his lungs. The greyish color that brushed his skin only made him prettier. I wanted to stroke his face, so I gently placed my thumb on his lash line, and let it slide to the outside of his eye. There, on his cheek, the other fingers joined to touch him. I felt the cold underneath my palm, and it felt nice.

I don’t feel like he is not there, there’s only a feeling he is of another form. Just as that damn wood is becoming warmth and light, he is turning into something that is about to vanish.

Why did you even come to me in the first place? To leave? And, out of all the places-here? In this (now) empty space filled with nothing but fire, and its companions? The image is too ironic, too ugly! Are you making fun of me as well? You want me to learn something?

I wonder what my revenge should be. To fall in love with everything surrounding us right now? That would be too obvious. Can I even have my revenge?

How about I come with you? Will that punish you enough?

Life with you made me forget myself, and now that you’re leaving, everything I was, is violently surfacing up. It's leading the march of thoughts inside of me.

And it makes me longing. For you. But it’s not a new feeling. It's how we were. During all those moments the time was doing whatever it was doing. I longed for you even when you hugged me the hardest, even when your lips stroked my eyelids, even when our eyes made a contact that felt like a collision. I longed for you. I am longing for you. Yes.

Is it because you loved this place, in a way more profound and deep, than I can even begin to comprehend? Because it gave you the soothing you longed for? Whether you would ask for it or not. You would immerse in it, and the moment you did, your face would have this look of intangibility. When the intimacy you shared with something fills you with purpose and ease.

I gave up myself ten years ago, when I made you my choice. So, inevitably, my story also ends here.

Is it cruel, or is this your last joke, to do it in here, like this?

Never mind.

Here is my last kiss, and your last embrace in a soon burnt down place with two dead bodies whom souls may or may have not loved each other, but have been each other’s destiny.

Room lit by a flickering light of the fireplace was soon consumed by fire, so it could become a part of this burning dance of sounds and light, shining through the stillness of the night.

Too bright and too warm for my taste, but I also wanted to enjoy the mockery of it all.