The tragedies of being forgotten in stone.

1987.
Unbeknownst to me, I make my final journey to the bakery, skid down the sidewalk to be in turn hidden by a sharp secluded bend in the street. Where I am heading to, pray no one will ever know. I toss a furtive glance behind, every nameless face I see sends me into a state of paranoia.

In my mind:
'Can you be in love with a stranger?'  'Yes.'
'To the extent of desiring so badly to embrace her in the crevices of your heart?
To carve your initials on her palms, and drown yourself in the scent of her blood?
To see tears eroding the sides of her cheeks begging you to stop?
Is this love? Say yes. This is love. Love means hurt. By hurting her I am loving her, I am in love.
This is love.
........................................

I am going to make her love me.' 

1987
8:31pm
Her name is Lavender. Actually I don't think I'll ever know her name. I call her Lavender because of the way her hair blooms meekly onto her shoulders just like the lavenders my Mother placed at my doorstep when she left. Deprived of love, life sucked out of its apologetic petals, its withered stem on the verge of death. I kept the lavenders under my dictionary, hoping to bury my Mother's apology under the weight of words, words that I would love to tell her, words that I would never tell her. And yet I couldn't dispose them. The overwhelming pungent of its decomposition haunts my dreams every night. Those lavenders and I, we are both decomposing. We are a tragedy, we are to vanish from the face of the world and have our names etched on stone and finally forgotten in stone too.

In my place:
Lavender is a magnificent creature. I am not saying this because I love her but because she really is one. I found Lavender under the Tree of Life 4 years ago. What beauty and allure she radiated, so sincere, so flawless, so pure...

1987
8:32pm
I am going to make her love me.