Scrambled Eggs At Midnight

see what you don’t realize is ever since we left our mothers’ wombs, covered in blood and tears, we’ve been floating out to sea. at first we just drifted, searched for a pulsing light or the silhouettes of land. and soon after, we started to throw our lines out into the darkness, blindly casting them in every direction.

and then we sat and waited. and we waited and waited and waited until we would feel a tug on the other end of a line. because that’s all we ever wanted and all we’ll ever want. a tug that confirms we exist outside of ourselves.

we have wasted centuries trying to solve love like it is last sunday’s crossword puzzle. we ruminate, calculate, psychoanalyze and genetically screen love until it’s stripped down to irrelevant prime numbers. it is a billion dollar cold case that we refuse to close. 

 and somewhere out there someone is getting a good laugh out of us. because they know that love is chaos. a wild poltergeist. there are no rules of the game, no definitions, no patterns. love is not anything and therefore it is everything. it is best friends, it is strangers on a waiting room. it is opposites, it is counterparts. it is indisputable, it is more complicated than that.  

 and granted, such anarchy is terrifying to accept. computed algorithms of compatibility are rendered futile. yet it is revitalizing as well. love has not staled in a claustrophobic formula. it has a pulse. so we just have to stop suffocating it. we have to allow it to catch its breath, give it a 10 second get-a-away and trust that one day we will recognize it when we see it.

now look here, old sport, if we want this relationship to last, we need to lay down some ground rules. there are things you should know. big things. things that will make you run away or refresh this page. simply put, i don’t want to waste your time, give you false hope, let go of your hand when you need it the most. 

we need to see each other as business partners, got it?. we’re not friends. we’re not lovers. we’re not family. i write to the faceless consumer/(no one?).we’re here for selfish reasons. you’re looking for something and i think i am too. i’m the oxypecker, you’re the rhino. anonymous symbiosis. 

so let’s get started.

i don’t write. the longest journal i’ve kept lasted for half a year after september 11th because i was a melodramatic child with an anne frank obsession. i went to an elementary school in which we learnt math with a hundred fortune cookies as radical educators peered through one-way windows [only to say my understanding for formal grammar rules is weak (i can teach you about igloo building though (i built one out of clay in grade three. it housed a clearly mexican playmobile family))]. i often find red-penned ‘AWK’s written all over my essays because i’m not the most articulate nor concise. i’m not a writer. i’m not anything (yet? ever?). 

so this isn’t writing. it can never be. i put off writing (papers, thank you notes, diaries, texts, emails)…it makes me nervous. what does? words on a paper? the deadlines? the permanency? the formality of a sentence? so if this is writing, then i’ll never do it again. so it’s thinking. it’s jazzercising fingers.