Of Fate

Minor Dialogue.

“How would you define eternity?” he inquired me, scorched sugar providing his scent would remind me of domicile quarrels, caramel lovers, starry nights under the gloom of time, whenever his tiny pictured albums fell off the dusted shelf, exposing guided lies, cozy arms in a bleak flash, and I clench my eyes shut, insomnia taints my lips, as I paint a smile on his youthful face, to win a spark back. Heads first, with eyes carved on the back of his tailed neck.

I hear the typewriter, pressing keys onwards.

Never stop, friend. University on the road, streaming school of life… philosophies are cheap, nowadays.

“Can’t bother with definitions any longer.” I replied, sipping drowsy bitter coffee off of his handmade, homebound cup. That arched ceramic wing reminding of decorative furnishings we broke, on a summer, three thousand odd years ago. I stare at him, wonder if he has down flimsy pats how we stuck those twined strings onto styrofoam spheres then, gluing jumbled chunks of papier-mâché in the most pretentious attempt I ever witnessed of depicting the solar system. It was late at night, and we were weather-beaten brood, fussing/flaming fun.

“I miss meeting our prior friends, late at the yellow bricked café, our dusk cares and revolutionary poetry.” he adoringly wheezes, independently pushing me back to latter semester's term paper doves, disturbed candles, discounted alcohol and enthusiastic third-time sex, leaning and crawling against our skins once more.

Do you think we lived our mornings well…?

“How would you define eternity?” I query, biding on his masterful blow. Lovely, to have him still, lose him at every blink. He’s been having migraines again, I can tell, from the way he grips the handrails when we are swallowing the world in spiraling cases of stairs. Archaic mysteries, juvenile hopes. "The japanese always knew," my grandfather used to say, of anti-chronic oriental insight, but only after having munched wholly at his first mass-produced fortune cookie.

“It read: ‘you've made mistakes you will regret, but things will turn up around.', ain’t nothing that ever sounded more righteous than that, but for death and life itself.” heavy accent carried to my lulled eardrums. I miss that outdated drone, within his forceful naivety. 

They were chinese though, I ought to have explained.

“As lids in dots, moments like this. Timeless, like… this f*****g screeching sound my soul makes, when the machine changes the line. How my heart tightens lopsidedly, perpetually. These bouquet light-bulbs in your irises, can you hear it?” he interrupts beautifully, and I fall in love again with his renewal, the restoring ashes, his making things up off of thick wind.

“No.” nonethelesser I am blunt. Sincerely sharp.

“Neither can I! Overwhelming, isn’t it?” he appreciates, grinning and hiding in his seldom wool sweater, special twists, he signals, skimming trough this conversation with harmonious noises. He reminds me of garden flowers, invasive weeds, dandelions that can swim on open air, and traffic jams that are strangely endearing, when you're wakeful amidst drowsy weekdays. 

"To get old.” I compliment/complement, basking in our lost-and-found species of sense of humour. Tragic, they would deem, had they known. 

Had they known: those children, of our own now �" travelling their own seas, flaunting their own galaxies, coping their own mechanisms. Nothing shared (almost).

“To love it, do it by will. It’s the utmost proof of foolishness, and yet…” he is hanging me by a cord, and I recollect instants of cherishing his presence, as he did it to himself, literally, on the edge, tiptoeing trough the faded brinks of boredom at tender-ages.

“Do you think we are wiser?” I fasten, dictating the pace of the future, impatient to the afterglow of a cold pungent beverage, sacrificing the careful step to thread onto his ephemeral direction, we used to be the smartest men in the room. Now it’s only us left. And the devils still seem to speak of fortune, by the way…

“I think we are… strangers.” ... that he gifts me no true attention in mock derision. Growing up together had been valuable, I knew him applicably well, his exquisite flavour, token of my affection, fractured bones and troublemaking these most wonderful memoirs.

“The way you like it…” I confess, embracing him with the warmth this aurora lacked.

“Which only you would know.” he ethereally touches my backbone, amicably, proverbial friendship nurtured by specks of misdemeanor.

“What do we do now?” I whine, competently attending my diluted duties. Who can blame me? … He is the poet.

"Wait…” and that we do.

“Until �" ” destiny speaks up again, and he takes a page out, flicks trough it lonesome-ly, takes another one from a stock-pile, arranges chaos and gladness in swift gestures of graceful imprecision.

“We are history. The written.” I try him. Checkmate, bingo, jackpot, victory �" they will never catch us alive if we dart that way, past those hills. Movie nights, art clubs, docks, and off-track people. Flashes. The B-sides of existence portrayed candidly, like a daft-deaf rebell yell.

We had a great run. Handshakes galore, trial kisses, stupendously under/over/mis-rated discoveries.

“And the ‘writing it’.” he sarcastically concludes, typing overall bottles of our bar-less liveliness, and we beam at each other afurther, faintly-gray rays of mellow ease, because I should have faith and trust that he is more than those engaging remains.

And in ‘the end’, of his no-number script sheet: WE. GO. ON...

-- because he never loses. 

Author's Note

Tentatively conveying dialetic chitchats. Hope there is something to enjoy in it.
And thank you kindly and loads for reading - feedback is, too, much appreciated.