We watch ‘Singles’ together, holding hands, endless possibilities lying ahead, for we might or might not end up together, only we don’t really care at the moment. Chris Cornell is still alive and sings about ‘Seasons,’ and he’s not aware of the future, neither are we, but none of us care, for we know there’s still a future—an infinite future of infinite possibilities. Through the screen, I almost smell the flowers the girl places on the balcony; so the next day, I buy a flower pot and tell you about it, and we stand there for a while watching the flowers, the beauty, and we are breathless, for beauty is breathtaking and overwhelming, and so is life. But then the flowers die, for I forget to water them, and you hear my sobs, but you don’t understand why I cry, for there is an infinite number of flowers in the world, only I want you to hold me like I’m the only one, and you say you can’t lie, for there’s an infinite amount of girls in the world. You’re too young to know, and so am I. Yet, despite the abundance of girls and boys, there’s only one me and one you.
I tell you I wear contacts, which make the world brighter and you stare at me for a while, wondering what my world looks like without the lenses. As a short-sighted person who didn’t know they were shortsighted until late childhood, I’m used to obscurity, I say, but then again it seems like our generation is shortsighted enough to be well-adjusted to obscurity, for all is relative and pointless at the moment, or so it seems.
We identify as losers and zeros because it’s the end of history and time and the world as we know it, only we don’t feel fine at all. We only feel useless, but don’t even care, for we have each other. We cruise around town, exchanging kisses, making love in the backseat, for we can’t afford a room. We even find secret places we call our own, where we spend time talking, drinking, getting high on substances we’re not familiar with, getting high on love and lust and each other and the infinite future which still feels infinite and bright. And we see sad graffiti faces on the walls, and we see whores and junkies others pretend they don’t see, but we’re still too young to be used to this and look into each other’s eyes for our daily fix of beauty.
And there’s Kurt Cobain and Courtney, and Kurt killed himself, only there aren’t any social media cemeteries yet, and we get sad in private. I say we’re heading nowhere, but you don’t care. For we are the destination. Something is killing you before death, you say, only you can’t name it and can’t fight it. Kurt dies before we die as a couple, but time isn’t linear—it never is—for the narrative of life isn’t formal or linear and seasons mix and don’t make sense. There’s an infinite amount of hopelessness in the world, saved just for us. And love jumped out the window instead of saving us. We can almost smell decay, yet we are part of it and we know it, and we can’t run away, for one can’t run away from oneself, so we move on, comforted by the thought we’ll eventually get used to the odor, that we won’t smell that bad to future generations.
I now float above the ground, yet at a safe distance, and I dream in notes and words and strange narratives, longing to reclaim the storyline and this feels like a hopeless case, only I now realize all life is but a hopeless case, only it’s not that hopeless, for there’s still a future, only a less egotistical future that might not revolve around us. There’s hope again; only this time, hope is wise.
You’re now playing in my mind like that song on the radio, repetitive background music you almost don’t notice, and I’m in the hotel lounge happily wasting time, because all exciting things have already happened, and I think that’s how life should be, like pleasant pop songs, and you’re almost part of the furniture, always there, and I’m the ugly duckling that never made it into a swan, but I don’t mind at all.