Armchair Zen

So, this is the way it will end for us?

Amid anger and resentment, bitterness and judgement?

Not between you and me, but by some imposed and imposing imposition.

Slamming metaphorical doors.

Wielding swords of words, shields of insult, fear and anguish.

Not between you and me. We agreed long ago to forget the past.

Deny the past, shun the past, pretend the past did not exist.

Pretend the past was just a play about someone else’s life.

Someone Else let loose the line that bound us, and sailed off into the sunset.

Someone Else built a life on tangled webs and veils of secrecy, codes and cryptics.

Now we have no more time to survive this. We have no time to let this blow over and add it as another act to the play.

Marvel at the heartbreak, the karma of it all, the two sides to every story, the be-careful-what-you-ask-for.

So this will be the play’s final act, because the clock tolls, time will not wait for us again.

It will be a wild tale that swings from ecstasy to admonition, from heartswell to heartbreak, with adventure and drama and music.

But you are on the stage. You are Someone Else. You are the star, streaking across the atmosphere, bright and recognizable.

These three seconds are all the time we have. We know what happens to shooting stars.

I am in the front row, and behind the proscenium I see stagehands with their hands on the fly, ready to ring down the final curtain.

I am awestruck and dumbstruck. It is a beautiful tragedy.

The hero, or whatever you want to call him, dies.

And I cry.

Be at peace,

Paz