Two bicycles equal four wheels and freedom to those who’ve had their social dreams clipped, burned, scarred, and the ashes dispersed into the night air. Can we deny that these, too, are machines?
Oh neh. Because the horses pastured down the street from our country, outlier, lonely lives stand lonely and cold in the foggy field. One is lying down. It may be dead. Perhaps, it feels the same encroaching, saturating uselessness we do.
Do the horses in the field play box ball when they come to the end of their limits? Do they run in circles around the fences that keep them barred from one another?
Neh. They stand solitary and damp, side by side, watching us as we pass.
Until yesterday, I passed alone. Calling out – life to life. I, too, am alive and stilled. Silenced underneath the pressure of the world at hand. Can you hear me as I pass?
Your large black eyes full of the sorrow of our neglect say “ja”, but perhaps it is only my insanity, my unbearable burden I am hearing calling out to me. You never ran alongside me as I passed. Only once, and that was a mistake – spooked by my ability to move. The latter was a crow’s call you heeded. Told you to fear, and so it was. Startled, you watched me go.
Tomorrow, we will ride into the sunrise and the sunset and the afternoon. Tomorrow, we will feel life in our veins again. Tomorrow, together, we call to you.
Can you hear the unity, the harmonies in our joint voices?
Perhaps, still, neh.
Today, we pass from those tall grasses and lying lives to the stone and cold and remote social obligations of our old roots. Oh how the tall buildings and the imposing powers remind me. The roots of this rotting tree still run deep. Deeper than the underground sewage ways that inevitably pass below our feet.
We sit together in cafe after cafe, getting all mechakucha on caffeine – a drug we’ve been trying to avoid, skirt around, come to terms with. Drug dealers, us both. These roots had started there, but now they feel distant – far off. Suffering of decay.
You think you recognize everyone you see.
I think I don’t know any of these.Are we so different, you and me?
Are we horses in two fields, standing side by side – but divided.
Hardly. The lines around my eyes echo your’s. And my handle bars rise higher, but your body’s just an inch above. This clever manipulation of the changes and challenges between us make us look like two, divided. While inside, we are the same. All around.
I have a hard time connecting with anything that isn’t resistance here. Perhaps, the stones have no voice to me. Or, perhaps, they are the only ones calling out.
I’d rather pass my time with the stones and the horses lying still than with my kin around a table where no-one talks. Or, we all talk nonsense in a different language.
You say hello, have a nice day.
I say, thanks for everything.
We both look away. Go our ways. Never touch.
I’m beginning to think I might spark a fire here.
Perhaps it will burn the whole of it down.
Perhaps, we will raise something better in its stead.
At any rate, this place is where my history lies – though I don’t know the curves of its streets, the same lines of its body. It is my lover’s shadow like a ghost passing through me.
And in the time I’ve been away, I’ve become so hollow you might pass the wind right through me.
A perfect spirit for the ciclakumei to grab hold of.