we loved each other with a premature love, marked by a fierceness that so often destroys adult lives.
— Nietzsche
We’re sitting on a beach near an upturned boat. It’s early evening and a thin, tall man walks past us with his camel in tow. The sun is setting and the world’s bathed in an orange, red glow. Far off into the ocean, ships light up the horizon. But despite the gunfire of the world around us, there is a deep well between your eyes and mine. I want to ask you questions but I don’t want the echo to break you. I don’t want to upset you, so we watch as each wave rescues crumpled soft drink cans and plastic bags. The sand starts to weave beneath my feet and pull me into the earth. But even now, I don’t want to speak to you.
“What do you want to do, ten years from now? Where will you be?”
You speak first. I like that about you, because sometimes you know when to lance the silences into submission.
“I dream about doing great things. I want to be someone good. But you can have dreams and then you look at yourself and your hands and what you’re capable of. And soon you end up letting go of your dreams and taking what comes.”
But you sit up on your knees and look at me with those honey brown eyes and say, “I think you’ll do something great. I know you will.”
And despite myself, I believe you. Because the world isn’t real anymore. The noise and dirt and stench of the day isn’t real anymore. You’re real. The rest of it is a trick of the light, as false as the horizon.
(Source: pavorst)
