Head turned upwards, looking looking at the empty ceiling, puffed smoke obscures my view of the white emptiness. Right hand touching the empty pillow next to me, out of habit, nothing specific to find there and still trying to figure it out. I used to believe that, living with the benefit of hindsight, counting your second round of the story on the field, taking things from the start one more time, would give you wisdom of some kind — or at least answers. I knew I had to avoid everything that was showing off the number two in such a flashy way but my actions proved unable to match with my rhetoric. Ceiling still empty and pale white. Nothing written on there. Not a single letter. I still remain oblivious of the basics here. Which is mostly the unmatched seduction of numbers.

As a matter of fact nobody ever really forgets the truth, we just get better at lying about it. We start with ourselves and before we even know it we spread it to the rest of the world so naturally like a rain of numbers on a calculator’s screen. This rain keeps tumbling down on me and I still cannot add one plus one. I have found number two and although everyone keeps on telling me this is the correct total to the digits I want to add I disagree.

My disagreement derives mostly from the fact that I still see only me in the picture. Even the greater picture. The cold sheets on your spot can confirm that. When round two began I could not even get out of the field during halftime. You were in there all the time, talking, gesturing, showing, explaining, and making sure your point had reached me.

Now it is just me and the ceiling. Again. Like before. Again. You are nowhere to be found to be counted in order to make my sum complete. Or simply to prove it wrong and come with the big mouthed arguments you started in round two and show me that one plus one makes us one again.

Too much of a wishful kind of counting right? People say that second chances are rare. Anyone who has one like it should take really good advantage of it. I believe first chances are rare. Second chances are choices and bad ones if I judge from the lack of answers that engulfs me, the hurting feeling that wasn’t supposed to be here since other kind of emotions brought you back to me and most of all your own absence.

I pray to go back to that place where love –or however this thing that keeps me up at night it might be called– where lovers stayed for their racing hearts, for the vision they had to create a new world through, whatever could come out of the union with their object of desire. Back to that time where lovers stayed and never thought of leaving or much less coming back only for themselves, only for that part of guilt or unfinished business that was eating them. They stayed for love, they created for love, they created with love, they lived for love and that made perfect sense to their lives. To be exact that made their lives go round. That gave their lives meaning and a reason to be better men and excel in all other fields as they did on love.

Maybe it is our times, so shallow, so having seen it all, so ready to fall and end up falling readily. Maybe it was me. Me and my romanticized notions on distribution of a second valuable chance. Maybe it was the difference I thought it would make, when in fact it didn’t even made a sound to neither of us. Maybe it was the unaswered question about who you are doing this for –that would most likely match with another question; who would do this for you.

Maybe it was the empty ceiling that brought more emptiness around to find a match.
Maybe it wasn’t anything of all these.
Maybe it wasn’t for us.
Maybe it was not even us.

Author: Pepi Naki

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