Just Another 'Freedom'
Just another 'freedom is...' - blah-blah-blah
my first week ends on a Sunday (it started on a Thursday)
with a plunger for two and a still warm bed about to be left behind
(the sheets smells like comfort, a little way into a danger zone)
and a single ticket for one, the fare paid with a late night incident where my first beloved on this road resuscitated another guy on the dance floor, and for some unexpected reason it bothered me enough to walk away and dance somewhere else where the music and moving bodies could hide their sucking faces (it shouldn't have, I suppose, I mean, what did you expect, fool? You were only a trophy of that so called 'freedom', something to be hunted, slain, skinned and mounted by the colonial invaders of a wild and savage land).
some journeys will last forever without yielding any useful learning, I suppose.
I felt like I was dying after that for a little while and hoped for a saving, but hey, that was not the ocean in a bad melodrama and I wasn't about to drown, it just felt like it.
Baywatch made millions, and I was about to go broke after all the drinks we shared.
a cold front was looming, instigating a kind of panic, a desire to flee before the real danger begins [fuck man, I miss those sheets, I will bleed on those white flags of truce until I'm so close to death that resuscitation becomes futile, the only possible outcomes would be heaven and hell, way after life (I've always been semi-suicidal, like a kamikaze pilot with a burning parachute, standing on the ground and watching the smoke trail of his comrades, sucking a cigar, smiling, thinking of spring blossoms growing on a young tree rooted to the broken face of a sheer cliff where avalanches tend to rip things apart when winter arrives.)]
saying hello was effortless, gliding, diving, weaving, flying towards a naked battleship cruising on wave after wave of pure lust.
saying goodbye was torture (kind of like bad cocaine after the fact, after the music stopped and the DJ broke the spell and the bodies stopped moving to reveal the ugly truth)
this was the end of one thing and the start of another, a yin yang of minds, bodies with bursting lungs, the shore was close, but not too close.
(I can hear her breathing underwater, swimming towards where she thinks the perilous coastline hides a land mass of introspection, a vast continent to be discovered, don't paddle backward sweet darling, follow the stars at night, the bright ones, the ones that make you THINK about shit.)
I suppose this damn routine will become less cumbersome with time, one can hope (even though hope is a useless mind construct, one can still hope that it is not.)
the only thing I'm taking from this place is her smell and some microscopic dead skin to write tiny poems on, love letters that will soon dissolve into brackish water, float away, disappear into little deaths among naked bodies fucking the living daylights out of each other, treading dangerous and deep waters, desperately trying to save themselves from an oncoming tsunami.
Freedom is a learning curve with fleshy circles at each end.
Freedom is goodbye until the next hello
Freedom is not worth dying for.