Tales of the Cities

(Branches wave under the weight of slimy semi-liquid, torpidly dripping. Long, spiral leakages meandering down the trunk. Saturating the air with the thickness of the creamy substance. Molten bubble-gum spreading its web around the lonely trees. Hazy web spreading its candyfloss orbit across the jungle. Impenetrable, sticky galaxies of noise. Atmospheres that don’t hear each other. Stratospheres that know only the language of a mucous, muddy flow as a currency of an exchange. Were there any.

Semi-permeable orbits of bewilderment. Could they speak, they would tell me that I must not feel, cannot tell the difference between what I feel and what I don’t. But, one is not a haze-drinker. One might not know how to decipher the messages which are not ones. One is, perhaps, not the reader of the non-existing alphabet of the milky way which is neither milky nor way. One most probably cannot be thrilled by the fact that instead of speaking, reading-writing, and listening, the task within daily encounters with the goliath barricading the way between a person and language is ceaseless negating.

Jungles are tiring. Tiring is the futility of pretense. Tiring are daily efforts solely aimed at, time and again, rejecting the browny gelatinous formations resembling tree-like structures; not accepting welding glueish fluid decorating the space between the branch-like components of the site; withdrawing from the distasteful attempts of the ornamentation drunk with the idea that it could pass for a web.

Tiring because the nights void of moonlight are not like cloudy days. Because cloudy days smell of cinnamon, lazy mornings, and an echo of warm, rainy nights showered by the kisses of the friendly, protective constellations. Because the gentleness of such a protective cosmic comrade is sweet fruit and freedom from everything, but not for anything. Because it is a version of the constant linguistic impulse, undeniably delivering the message:

I like the language I can understand and speak. It’s called the poetics of the remix.)

I remember things. By the word things I mean people, stuff, places, times, and things that I still don’t know the words for. I don’t know if anyone does.

Because I remember, things, places, and times are vivid in my memories. So are the people. Sometimes, I think I remember too much. Things thus become heavy. Nonexisting words even heavier. Let alone thoughts.

Some people are my memories. Some of my memories are just my memories. Some are just mine.

Likewise, I imagine I am among the things constituting some people’s memories. I wonder what places and times those memories belong to. They certainly do not belong to me. I am certainly not among the things constituting some people’s memories. Because it’s not me.

Things in my memories are what makes my thoughts heavier than I can bear it. Or, so somebody’s memory of myself has it.

But that’s not my thought. Because some people remember things among which I am not.

A thought of you is a summer night by the river. Full of dark green smell. Saturated with dampness of the drizzle coating your face with a thought of me.

My thought of countless light years sustained in a smile. The whole universe gleaming in the sparkle of the eyes aflame.

Warming the shadows of nonexistent words one would use to talk about the memories of things.

Cooling the existent ones crammed in the lonely thoughts preserving things, preventing them from getting lost and dislocated.

A thought of you is all I can think of as the tiny drops lacing your face crystallize into a snowflake flashing out from your iris a thought of a warm night.

As I remember the music of the galaxies from eons ago, I am not among the things constituting  some people’s memories. Because it’s not me.

In some people’s memories other people are the past. Some people have future thoughts of other people. 

Some people in some people’s thoughts are the present.

I remember things. The word things means what constitutes part of who one has been.