It’s that time of year again, time to crawl under my blanket and set out on pilgrimages of forgetfulness. North of here is the tomb of simple goodness – vandalized. South of here is the mausoleum of easygoing fun – in a pile of rubble. I mourn them both with a solemn bow, angry visitors pass me by with their bows and their arrows, pointed, pushing. Their eyes overcast, not a drop of kindness trickling down, just a grey drizzle of me, me, me… Maybe we simply mourn in different ways, I tell myself and I turn on an old Romanian Christmas folk ballad. It fills me with sorrow. It fills me with loss. It is like listening in on paradise past. When was the last time we sang to each other and felt like living matter that needs to be kept warm and fed – fed as in nourished?... Nothing but machines, now, between us nothing but machines between us and everything coldly feeding us to their anger. I close my eyelids and let the tears roll, roll on down, until I’m drained and the pillow is soaked I drift into visions of the vanished, I forage through conjured-up hereafters I dream things of glory I sleep, sleep, sleep…
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