Now, as we stand just a heartbeat away from a new year, as usual, you’ll start the countdown and we will too, but this time, we need more than your two minutes. Why are you happy? Mourning deserves its own minute. We want the days that passed without crossing, so we can cry.
We really want to cry.
Let me tell you about a year that passed over my body. I lived three lives, different in their existence, yet similar in length.
One third spent in death,
one third searching for it,
and the last one never found me but I was dead.
What does it mean to spend a life unlike your own, running from a death that suits you better?
That’s a question that melted inside me all year, until I realized I’m dead,
and this body you see is a curse full of resentment, walking on a planet that always claimed to be human.
Now I have messages,
I’ll scatter them among you about you, to you, from you:
To the World:
I am your wheat, born from a seed watered with oil and thyme.
I break my fast on love, with a bite of morning,
and my father’s eyes were the orchard of existence.
When my mother laughed, daisies bloomed, and morning danced happily on her shoulders.
As for me, nothing to mention. My eyes are dark like night,
ringed with red from their own confusion,
and my sun shines only when the universe feels ordinary:
a blue sky, a bird singing a morning song because it’s alive,
a muezzin calling for prayer,
a rooster knowing when dawn breaks to crow and tell us night is shy and ran away.
All of that was a story.
I don’t know what kept my sun from coming.
I only know one morning I woke thinking it was dawn, but found the rooster dead.
No sun, no sky, no morning.
To Humanity:
I cursed you twice and secretly believed in you.
One day, with friends, I declared my innocence and disbelief in your so-called humanity after they plucked and killed my orchard.
Maybe it was then that my inner chaos grew, smoke from memories that never end.
The second time was when the blue vanished from the sky, leaving only the sound of death.
And for the same reason, I believed in you secretly. My father died when I was nineteen,
and together we faced the sky’s four disappearances.
How hard it would have been for him to attend his last reckoning.
He would have died, no doubt,
and I’ll remain a disbeliever forever.
But here’s a chance for you to defend yourself, to say:
To the human world: humanity is only that someone died having said goodbye,
and the one who didn’t is alive and will never die.
To Oblivion:
One day you called me a wandering wheat born from the womb of existence, and I didn’t care.
You stole all my questions, and left me confused.
Where is existence in your presence?
How can there be life if you’re not the last stop?
To eternal oblivion, you are the forever remaining,
tell them how many times you’ve stolen children from their arms. Don’t lie.
Tell them about the questions in your pocket: who, when, how, what, why.
A child dying with only a piece of bread and thyme in his pocket.
Tell them you’re a cunning thief, and you’re sorry.
Look into their eyes well, examine them,
then die without a word so you remain as confused as me forever.I won’t lengthen my messages.
The world no longer listens,
and like any “human” on your planet,
I’m tired of sending birds carrying messages.
They never reach you, nor do they return.
