by Alexandra Magearu
It is the last night we will spend together in this house, you & me, halves of the same pit.
Most of the times, we have enjoyed light-riding, buried in our cushioned seats behind the glass, carefully sipping our cocktails waiting for the world to collapses into itself. No discernible wants, no future plans, no minutiae of business meetings, no care in the world.
Safety, that is what you told me. Safety is the most important, that and self-preservation.
Gradually, it has become apparent that the day will merge into the night no matter how fast we recede into our corners, despite the amounts of plastic garbage we recycle, the books we write against it or the religions we manufacture from our dreams.
Memories will be dreams and dreams memories. People will grow into the bark of trees like wild sculptures without a sculptor. And then they will last forever.
Waiting, dreaming of the end of the world. It is ridiculous to see how naturally our movements come together. The smiles, the lipsticks, the way we hold our cigarettes. Attention-seeking whores.
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It will all end quietly, almost imperceptibly, during the night, while most of us are asleep. We are the happy ones for we shall fall into an endless dream, a dream that starts with the end of the world and goes on forever like TV static. We, the dreamers, will be relegated to our own personal limbos, re-living our past lives. The others are perhaps the unlucky ones. They will feel time like a knife cutting through the air and then an infinite pause. They will be lifted in the air along with the trees and the houses, the stray dogs and the cars. Dust will rise from the deserts, water will rise from the seas. Everything shall be cluttered into one giant ball and thrown into the air, space, the universe and beyond.
And we will be as detached as tiny sailboats in the middle of the ocean. As if the whole of our existence were only a mistake that lasted a few seconds until it was wiped off completely from the clean slate.