So. This is it. He gave us one hour. One hour, said he. Fifteen minutes per corner.
The last thing we remember about mirr wasn’t the last time we met. It was never over between us, so the last time is this time. For us he is the personification of as if. He taught us to try to compare, and made it feel like it was sprinkling grained butterflies over a barren womb. If we had remembered dressing in stripes we would have asked him to court us. If we did ever go to jail, that is. But Mirr wasn’t even the biggest judge. He only led the way, opening doors, one door: time.
This is insane, he should have been out of our minds, or maybe we should have. The mirr-us-cript was all over the place in our heads, how could we ever find that print button? Where was the paper? We need ink!
He silenced us: it needn’t be perfect from the beginning, and moreover it needn’t be finished from the start. That is your goal for this year, gimel. Go.
It hurt, oh, how we wanted to paint him that Texas desert, looking out to nowhere left and right, knowing that we had to make a decision left or right, knowing we had the choice. All he did was plant a seed. Nobody can grow a seed that is not his in the first place, or second place for that matter, and we remember him touching that essence of us when he said: be seal for me, he said, I want you to glisten for me. I want you to crack all the clams that you want, he said. That is when he entered our lives. And by suddenly go quiet he never left. He left us missing him. Mirr.
In four years of silence we should have replied the same way, waking up that one morning, missing his voice, hearing his music, time difference never makes a difference if you wake up at the same time. If everything had been bigger, and nothing would have changed, this would be the day that him and I would meet. We dared even to say that it was him who grinded those butterflies. They echoed in his silence. They powdered the mirror he was holding up. Because he said mirrors are only meant to reflect this image of a woman who is lost so badly that she clings and gives birth to these magical thoughts about making conversation with strangers and changing her outlook on life, knowing that she especially looks for men in mirrors. Or mirrors in men. Or men holding mirrors up for her to see, because otherwise she can’t see? Is that it? Is the colored powder needed to reflect external incentive and pain? What smell does it have? Rusty and bloody? Does it cover her in dust, preventing her from feeling the effect of knowledge? Is that the reason for looking for pain? Because it’s the goal in life?
Breathe, baby girl. Breathe. Everything leads back to me, he said. It always has, it always does, it always will. And I have called you, I have seeded you, planted you firmly in the ground, made you feel born, made you feel nourished. I have always been there, he said, even when you had your eyes covered, or held that mirror backwards. Mirr was real. He was more real than you, he said.
We looked to our left and read that the moment a conversation turns personal, people can do different things to hide. Some of the veils are questions. Some make statements to hide behind, in the hope of being so over the verbal top that one feels left behind in the valley, opening and closing one’s eyes for the information that just rushed by. And in that closing of eyes information that is spilled can be truthful but fake. Don’t write about that, he said. Don’t talk about how things are ephemerical by default, don’t even call him a breather, it’s not about him, he said. He paved the way for you, gimel. You always wanted to know how the book ended, even before you bought it, or read it, or wrote or sold it.. All those people were right, you know that now, and yes, you are ready to hear the truth, even though you have always known it yourself too: they did give you the wrong medication. You asked to not know. You never needed anything but me. But powder was sprinkled over your soul, it covered your eyes like two hands from behind, giving you the impression that someone is taking good care of you by closing your eyes. I don’t blame you for it. But now you know. I made you to be here for a reason. That was all he said. Then he stepped back in the third corner. Forty-five minutes had passed.
Of all the interrelations, it is the ones that molded us the most that keep lingering in physical memory. We knew the body remembers too, it’s as if the skin has some sort of memory, otherwise there would be no need to raise babies the way we do, being cuddly and all. The same way all things that happen in life make an impression, perhaps subliminal. We believe this. It is the exact same reason water cannot come into being without the concept of H2O. And still all these experiences formed just one ‘me’, while they could have been arranged in hundred me’s. Can they still be, we wondered. It that what we feel, the multitude of possibilities that make us stand still, not knowing which route to take? We could have been living with mirr! We could have had those three children. Three. Three quarters have passed. Perhaps in the last fifteen minutes we can imagine living a life filled with death, or filled with that medication he took away from us.
It always -eventually- would lead to me, he said. And we had the two hands removed from over our eyes last night, in a state of shock we awoke, and knew we had to be filled with the truth. And that truth is that at this moment we don’t believe in what we believed back then, when we said: ‘Looking back there is this tendency of people to draw a straight line towards the now; like they always had to end up here, and the sideways they took were only meant to learn what the right way was all along.’ We said we didn’t wear finalistic glasses, that we didn’t wear glasses at all. Blurry life was just fine for us. Maybe that is the reason our ears also stopped working..
I am proud of you, gimel, he said. I really am. Because you started something new. See?