A rant about time

Twenty-five days ago, twenty-five days to the hour, I wrapped my hands around her wrists, and looked intently in her eyes, and spoke to her the only words that came to mind

“You are stupid for thinking The Shawshank Redemption is overrated”

And she looked slyly in my eyes and said with that voice that always gave me butterflies that she thinks my taste in movies was as stupid as my taste in clothes

And I moved closer to her face and told her that it was better than my taste in women

And she moved closer to my face and before she could speak I gave her a kiss


But twenty-five days move by so fast

One more quickly than the last

And today for the first time in twenty-five days

I had a problem remembering her face


Now all the memories of the past

In a single picture congregate

All stories told, all questions asked

Meet in the aspect of her face


And I if I could not remember her face

What does that say about the memories we had?


It’s like a manifestation of a universal complication, a temporal cosmic malfunction, a hellish creation of a hellish function, dictated that all the forces of Earth and Hell act in combination in one magnificent gesture to break our pride

And it did break our pride


Because the realization dawned upon us that we are just heaping sacks of flesh a group of atoms governed by cellular equations, helpless, shriveled and in an instant broken like brittle limbs and maimed like words scribbled on old pieces of parchment.


And the old parchment couldn’t keep us intact as the pencil marks faded into obscurity

And eulogies replaced the love poems

And tear stains replaced the stains of lipstick

And the picture of her face was replaced with a scribbly haze.


She is dead, because time unravels all of our embroidery, and it does not care if it was elegant or not, because time has no taste for artistic flair.

And trust me, I’ve appealed to the moderators of time, sent them requests by snail mail and prayers, and they have left me on hold listening to some stupid automated voice telling me to be patient my child, help will be right with you, and some cheesy music with cheesy lyrics about being saved, when all I wanted to do was to be dead.

Because it’s not my fault that time is an ill-run bureaucracy, and I’m pretty sure that it’s not her fault either. And a wise man once told me that life’s unfair, but I think that it’s pretty damn fair.

Because life does not care about your skin color, or the color of your hair, or who you sleep with, or who your father knows:

Life is an asshole to everyone


I remember she had a small blemish on her hand, and I could feel it with my finger every time I held her hand

And late at night when the lights were off and I couldn’t see, I could always be sure that it was her next to me, because every time I took hold of her hand the blemish was always there


But at the funeral the blemish was still there and sadly, very sadly, I did not care


And I do not care, if time is on a mission to take me down or if that’s just the way it is; I do not care, if other people have died before, or if this is a part of life; and I DO NOT CARE about the American Psychological Association or how it chooses to qualify disorders,


because if order was so freaking good, then why does the universe tend towards disorder

and if love was so damn good, then why do people die?


Way before I fell in love with her, I saw her crying in the soccer field, and I gave her a hug and wiped her tearful cheek, and later that night she gave me a phone call and we talked for three and a half hours,


and I made fun of her, because she spent her summer junior year taking pictures of birds, and I thought that this was super nerdy, but I secretly wanted to have been there with her, because she made birds sound so interesting, but I would never tell her that


and she made fun of me for thinking Batman is better than Superman, but I know she secretly agreed with me because he’s fucking Batman and the girl I loved was crazy, not stupid


But if time, that old tyrant, sees us not as his children, but as the guests in his bed and breakfast, then why did he make us think he loved us in the first place?

Why give us that complimentary bottle of champagne and an upgrade to the honeymoon suite if he in fact meant to later give us separate rooms and evict one of us before the other

And why would time teach us how to paint if it meant to burn all of our paintings later on I do not understand


Today, I do not know the face that twenty-five days ago I held between both hands and pressed on tightly from both directions saying “You’re the most beautiful piece of silly putty I’ve ever seen,” as my friends rolled their eyes in disgust and called me a creep


And yesterday I knew that face, but yesterday I cried my eyes out again for the twenty fourth day in a row and today I am yet to shed a tear


I’m starting to wonder if forgetting is time’s way of sending me complimentary beer




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