Silent palms. Black. On a black sky. A bright moon, bitten from one side. It squints cleverly with its remaining eye. A fresh taste of the ocean river lingers in the air, along the most beautiful road in the most beautiful state of the most American country. Our sky often has clouds. They spread like a translucent veil around the one-eyed celestial body, wrapping it in silvered moiré, while it, shameless, continues to slyly peek through this empty shroud.
I know how to arrange words beautifully. To beautifully arrange beautiful words. And I also know how to think about what I know, what love is. Once, I even practiced it. I got A’s.
I don’t know what happened to my time, why it suddenly veered off somewhere and is showing me some strange picture. Probably because I always thought I knew how to love, but never thought I knew how to be loved. So today, along the black palms under the black sky, with the moiré moon smirking slyly down, I think that probably love doesn’t just not exist, but never did. And no butterfly flinches anymore from these painful words in my heart. All the butterflies have flown away. Probably north. Or south. To South America. Or maybe I even invented the butterflies? Once, to make it less boring?
Suddenly, some half-dead moth fluttered somewhere around my throat, beat its wings for the last time, and disappeared helplessly.
I still don’t know if I like freedom from Love. Freedom from knowing that I no longer need to search for it. Freedom from the feeling that there’s only one reason left, and it’s nowhere where I am not.
I still don’t know if I know that it really isn’t there. And I don’t know if I want to know anything more about this topic at all.
I know I want to fall asleep and see green palms in the blue sky, in turquoise waters.
