I am sailing.

Is it true that what we omit is just as important as what we include, in the larger scheme of things?
That the choices we did not make influence us through their palpable absence,
perhaps even more than the decisions we did take?
Like white would not be white without black, and night only exists in comparison to day,
- are we just binary bundles, held together by the belief that we are masters of our own lives?
Perhaps I am just trying to escape responsability.
By building this theoretical problem out of my own concerns,
by digging into the darker corners of the stormy sea I am trying to contain.
Perhaps I can find a way to blame you for feeling both like a victim and a traitor?
Perhaps I can keep the wind in these sails and just keep going.
I could say that you were spared by the storm,
Your sails are still pristine, heading back to their familiar route, towards the sunset.
And if you feel a little bored, there are picnic baskets and stories to be told.
Everyone loves a good story when the waters are calm.
Of course I'd be wrong.
More than binary bundles, perhaps we are just random reserves of complexion.
Held together by nothing but a will to infer meaning from whatever experience we have survived.
"You" is nothing but a fictitious construct. Me, I am the fingers typing these letters.
Eternal recurrence is not a real thing, is it?

This is not your life

it's probably true that
one thing,
just one thing differently
lived, felt, expressed
might have changed the course of things.
But we were busy weaving the narratives we would later tell ourselves.
So that whatever ropes were cast around us,
the holes were too big for us to be caught in the net.
So that whatever scene we acted out, 
we would never be held accountable.
And our reality could never brush against the rest of the world's.
Everything you wanted me to say- egocentrically, futile- I did.
You just weren't around to hear them. 
And all I wanted you to do, you did. I am sure you did.
With someone else- c'est la vie. 
C'est ma vie.


It is difficult to subtract anything from a feeling.
It would look all lopsided if made into a pie chart.
Any and every methodological framework is inherently unreliable.
Causation and correlation chase each other like rabid foxes in the night,
one always wins but only by killing the other.
Those fluttering shadows, were they real people once? 
Their hearts beating together in the dark. They told each other it was a sign,
but bodies are built to empathize,
hearts slowly adapt to the drumming beat nearby.
What we mistake for intimacy might just be cardiac generosity.
Those moving shadows.
Pretending to be free though they are bound by the heaviest chains,
happiness stolen from someone else.
pleasure robbed from another's equation.
Can the feeling exist without the crime?
And does a heartbeat mean anything at all?

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