Written by: Mystique Copyright 2006
It is strange.
How I feel is meticulously and perfectly strange. I am a rebel, I always had so much rave inside me, I let it out in my writings, in my screams, in my tears, or in my glass of champagne.
Today I came across thousands of thoughts: The imperfection of who everyone believes is perfect, the deterioration of what is so called human affection; the malformation of many things around me, and most importantly the sarcasm of an option we did not take in our past.
I came across thousands of thoughts, thousands of clinging words that suffocated my breath.
We sat together, my friend and I, playing the emotional control game, it could never be harder, playing an emotional game of controlling one’s tears from artistically cutting our cheeks.
If we cried, we would have cried: for our friend, for us, for the world around us, for the bitterness of the reality of understanding what life’s modus operandi is all about.
My friend believes: life picks people to experience things randomly, she believes in spirituality, in searching maybe for some new religion.
Both of us were sad for her, we thought maybe with our presence together we could send positive vibes to her, maybe we could show each other how much we loved her, but she wasn’t with us, she was far away, living that decision she took a year ago.
My thoughts were like a storm, and the pain that I was in made it more of a sand storm. I looked at my friend and I told her with my tears blurring my vision about my other dearest friend: “The sarcasm of an option we did not take in our past is painful, she could have chosen it: a new life without that man, a tougher life, a harder life, she was about to leave him, and suddenly she changed her plan. She chose to go back to him, despite the agony, the hurt, the pain.
And after that, life has only given her proof of the existence of malformation.
Why can I see the other option, laughing at me sarcastically? Why didn’t she choose that other option which I thought was best for her?” I asked my friend.
She looked at me and said: “She chose it, and life is all about choices.”
I stood and looked at the piled books on my friend’s shelves, books about: religion, food, wine, cigars, music, business and more.
I picked a book about time, a book about the philosophy behind time.
“I’ll borrow this book” I said.
“No, another time” she answered.
Only time. Yes, it is all about time.
I guess if life weren’t at her side this time, maybe it’d be at another time.
Another time, in another life.
Another time, in another dream.
Another time, with another choice.
