Gerasa

In Gerasa of Antiquity, the crossroads of valleys imprinted with footprints of Alexander the Great. Broken pieces of cobblestone steps, in an oval plaza once held promises of prosperity. Yet, the most humble and arrogant of men know - that promises are often made to be broken. With every pillar in my view, once intricately carved with Hellenistic perfection each stands fractured now, distressing lines of frailty.

I can only wonder whose footsteps I trail, centuries after. And imagine the realm of Greek and Roman empires preceding me. Temples of Jupiter and Diana overlooking the remnants of a kingdom - a display of pride once lingered. What kind frailty would Jupiter feel, to once be the King of Gods, but he now no longer reigns? And what sorrow would Diana feel, to summon the moon over this sight of eternal silence, dusted and deserted dynasty?

And I, the solo wanderer unkempt with my imagination. Am left to believe that everything is but a dream, and everything has been created to be left and remain a dream. 

The story of my laugh-lines

Gravity sinks hearts. And here we are, across tables, unable to speak of what we think about. Sights and sighs, I can feel you hold your breath as I inhale to express words we both saw coming. They came in a direction, like a train going at full speed - but we are on the tracks. And we stood hand in hand. This is a separation of degrees colder than the solstice of winter. But sighed you did, and exhaled as the coldness surrounded us. As we both begin in isolation. Isolated but not strangers.

I am convinced we can never be strangers. I have learned over, and over again. Tenfolds over. That the lines have been drawn on my skin, under my eyes like convincing wrinkles - we can never be strangers. And maybe the same line on my right cheek exposed when I smile, reveal my every attempt to find humour in it all. I have learned to find wit in the wrong of all spaces.