Run

Running away does me good even if the pains and desires remain, it keeps me occupied, busy, folding and unfolding this dress, getting haircuts in different places, the many ways my skin responds to soft water here and hard water elsewhere, the scent of laundry, of sheets, of different beds, the visibility of the stars and the sounds of the rain, and there is hope, I feel, whenever I tell a lie, to the real estate broker, to the corporate lackey, to the cable TV housewife, to the preening salesman, the philandering priest, the faux pariah, the office jester and the cubicle beauty, to the plagiary poet who spreads all my lies, these little pieces of lies left in all the little places where I have been, these give me the strange satisfaction of witnessing their conjugations of my story, of reality, as if they knew where I was coming from, as if they understood where I was going, as if they could do anything for me, as if reality was the trophy won at the end of their tedious lives, and so everytime I run away I tell a lie, and it breaks your heart, my love, it pains you though I can never speak truth for you or your love because those too are such lies, such deceptions in their details and intensities, so I run away and leave pieces of things, of stories and interpretations, of parables and propaganda, models and simulations, translations of this morbid fear of slipping away in your embrace, that just as when we have found each other I would die and you would not notice because you were sleeping and the night had taken me away, oh why didn’t you see, why didn’t you keep watch, why did you let me go, disappear into the mist of despair, and now only the mythology of my madness haunts you, it comes to you in the night before you sleep, it comes to you in the morning before breakfast, and reluctantly you follow the trail of lies, you are weary but the lies remain most tempting, most intriguing, sometimes days pass without recur, without desire, but still you need to see, you need to know, you need, what else, but some form of proof that I have died, that because you cannot have me I am truly gone, and that the universe is again in symmetry, like the balancing act of your remaining days, each day churning out my words and arrangements and rearrangements of words, yes, lies and more lies, such beautiful perfect lies, and my feet will never wear out, this dress will continue to fold and unfold, and the water, the beds, the stars and the rain … I will run away, my love, run away until you die.

Fatima Lasay, Quezon City
Tuesday, September 23, 2014

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