The perils of morning life

There is this smell which comes from the middle of your chest every morning. The smell of cradled skin and lavender remnants from a late night shower. As you draw your breath out of the many deaths you have tried on for the last four hours I can smell your toothpaste and the digested events that made your life yesterday. Thoughts like the crumbs left behind by this shy machinery called dreaming. We stand suffocated into a room where there is no space for drollery or resentment. Here I’m afraid you are going to wake up and not like me anymore, like the child you were nineteen years ago, filled with the joyful expectancy that, any moment now, somebody will come in and bring you another dog, younger and cuter than the one you already have. I can’t change my face just like that. It takes years of pain and suffering until, out of mere mercy, one of your gods steps over his pride and uses ten percent of his brain to change me into somebody else. And only after that decision, it takes about forty years until the lines start appearing like wrinkles. Those are the lines along which death will take pieces from you, and then put you back, reshape you, erase any leftovers and shove you into another woman’s body and then wait patiently. Until you are ready to be a patient again, etherized upon the white sheets washing machines weave carefully. But you will be gone by then, transported with the patience of perverse gods dressed in white robes into another woman’s body sucking your future out of that woman’s nerves, anxieties, and an absentminded father. But then younger and cuter dogs will come and every morning will be different. I shall stand beside you, but in another shape, death’s recovered patient who now lives a normal life. With you, but alone, thinking that the biggest present for your birthday would be this illusory other whom I imagine keeping in my inner pockets, feeding it with the illusory sweetness of words, telling it illusory stories about others who lived just like us and nothing happened to them while doing it.

You finally wake up and tell me that I couldn’t possibly know that because I don’t know how mornings felt to them.

I can see it now, there, under your smile. You had your first wrinkle today. Don’t you feel etherized?


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