“There’s a place I want to take you. It’s back home, right down by the water. A small pad of green grass and a sandy beach, a long jetty reaching out into the water, giving the most amazing view of the islands around it. There’s a bench for us to sit on, if we don’t just recline in the grass or sit on the edge of the jetty with our feet in the water, watching jellyfish follow the stream beneath us. I rarely swim from there because I’m oddly afraid of jellyfish and they always travel in great numbers there, like a horde of them, sticking together, trying not to get lost in the ocean. I’ve never understood how jellyfish function. I think that’s the reason why I fear them. I often fear what I don’t understand, like most people I’m sure. That’s also why I’m sometimes hesitating with you, because this is all new, and I don’t know where things go. I mean, I am usually pretty good at telling the future, but that’s because it’s all been mapped out for me so far. Now, with us, I have to make decisions I’m not used to. Decisions that matter. Decisions that form lives. And I don’t understand all the implications of those decisions, and I’m afraid of making the wrong ones, just as I’m afraid of picking up a jellyfish that fights back.”
My body is a big ball of unrest and not even the trees can calm me. I try to imagine them with their long fingers stretching up into the air, reaching for empty space. But my imagination cuts them off before they reach anything other than the feeling of longing. My imagination is always too concerned with reality, when I wish for the unreal possibilities that lie beyond these acres. I draw mystical eyes because I feel as if you’re seeing through my fair skin and straight into my dark soul, as if every blink from your eyes is a shot with a loaded gun, tearing through my respectable appearance to drain my sinful blood. And I would hide behind the trees, but they have been cut down by now. And I would hide on different islands, but all my bridges have been burnt. And I would scream. And I would rage. And I would run like the wind and my footsteps would spread like wildfire. But there’s no sound. There’s no emotion. There’s no wind and there’s no oxygen here. There’s just your eye on me, and me suffocating in my own web of lies.
The Sun also rises in March. Despite the rain, the snow and your cold heart, the Sun will rise. I know this, for it has always been this way. I know this, because I listen to the Earth. The trees are green, not with leaves; their bark. Their bark is green; the long winter has taken its toll, and the bark is green. I was raised believing green to be a happy color. A color of prosperity, of “go”. Green today is no such thing. Green is moss. Green is old bread. Green is the color of trees in late March. And green is the color of your eyes. I should think you had been staring at trees in March for too long, your eyes forever doomed to reflect them back to the World. But I know that’s not the case. I know you’re not like me. I know you’re green by design, not by choice.
Calling your name out into the rain. But to what use? I long ago discovered the vastness of these lands. I long ago discovered I couldn’t call you up when I wanted to. I long ago discovered I couldn’t simply discover you; you would show yourself to me when you saw it fit to do so. And who would want to be discovered on days like this? Except for me, of course. Except for my insatiable hunger for your eyes, your attention: your devotion. No, being discovered today is no easy feat, and some greater power must pull for that to be a wish in a human soul.
The seas are remarkably still. They must feel the weight of the World push down on them. I haven’t seen a single wave today, while feeling an entire ocean drop down from above. Neighbours are picking flowers. This is the scale of it all: a world crumbling, a world static, and a world that continues as it always has. This is the scale of it all, and this is what has me so exhausted, twitching with every movement anything in the World makes. This is why I feel ill today. I can’t describe it: I feel the World.
It started last night. At least, that’s when I first became aware of it. I couldn’t fall asleep, and I could do nothing but lie in bed, twisting and turning, trying to shake off this new feeling. I could do nothing but try to figure out what was happening. I felt pain, I felt joy, I felt love, birth and a lot of death. I felt the lifetime of a generation in an instant. And the Sun is hidden behind the clouds. And the clouds are hidden behind the fog. And the fog is hidden behind my eyelids. And I am trying to escape.
How do you escape knowledge? How, when I know the suffering, the cruelty and the beauty and goodness that could be instead, can I escape that knowledge? Call me a coward: I’m not the man for this task. I’m not the one you’re looking for. Should I shout it from the rooftop? Should I write you a letter? Should I just find a knife and do what you do with knives?
Can I forget?
The Sun also rises in March. And this is my hope. This is what I must not forget. Such a fragile thing, the mind, the memory. The loss. Such a fragile thing, the light. Such a fragile thing, you. And when I felt everything, I felt your hole dig into me even stronger than before. I felt everything, and instead of you, I felt your negation. And a negation is also a thing, just as a thing is a thing. And I felt that I wouldn’t feel anymore.
And I felt that the Sun would rise.