“I don’t know. I just think it would be different.”
The windows on the opposite building are gradually lit up. The yellow lights reflect off the walls, shine down on the asphalt street, and finally, jump down the sewer because lights like none better than to entwine their bodies with darkness until they are swallowed whole. After all, what other meanings do lights have to live? The people passing by under the windowsills move up and out of the picture, leaving only shadows and tiny echoes of laughter. The trees rustle and their leaves are murmuring between themselves, speaking in tongues, laughing in tongues, mocking the human race in tongues. But how come they are not falling through the cracks of the windows to leave an opening for the hope of something? The question was never “to be or not to be,” perhaps from the beginning, he means, “to survive or to die.” People choose to be warrior because they think they can fight against the world. Of course, a great man said once that the world break people and some will stand up at the broken places. He leaves out the part about those who will not. The bed is getting cold, the down blanket is getting thin. But the girl on the chair refuses to go home, and the girl on the bed refuses to reply with any other sentences than a vague “I don’t know.” The girl on the bed looks at the bouquet of O’Hara roses, thinking, “I never thought it was named after that O’Hara,” wondering, “Is it true that we are born to hurt and be hurt in return?,” saying, “I guess that’s just how things are.”
“But that’s not how things are. That was your choice. You chose to be trampled. You chose to lay yourself down so love can have the chance to grow. But fuck love and that old damn bitch called Fate. If it were love, he’d be with you today, talking about dinners and whatnot. Don’t you think he’d have known – he should have known – that it’d be wrong to sow hope on infertile soils? For two hours, he was there, sitting opposite you at a faked old wooden table, thinking “I could play this game with her until we find out who will be the loser,” thinking “I’d much prefer a person of my own country,” thinking “How long is she going to obstruct me and my peace,” saying “I don’t have many friends here,” wishing “If I were lucky, she’d have been in my bed a month ago.” And yet, you believed him. You believe the son of a bitch that you inherently know from the well-cared-for fingers that he will be no different from the other sons of a bitch who sweet talk you into betraying the only thing of value within you – your country. I wish I could spell out the stupidity in that conversation, highlight it, and scribble notes all over the pages until you can get a single farthing into your head that he will not – ergo, will never – love you back. Why do you let the demons haunt you?”
“Perhaps because the angels are no better. Perhaps because neither of them is the option. I am the option. It’s always been that way.”
