How can I let go of you now? You’ve seen my panic stricken face.
You know the sharp stone that vibrates in my belly.
I don’t know what it is, or where it came from. But you have one too.
I dream of scooping out the rock from my body like an avocado pit. I carve it into a bookend and offer to do yours, too. The pain in our guts could be bookends shaped like funny monkeys covering their eyes. They each have a fez and wicked little smiles.
“Don’t read these books,” I imagine them saying.
And I invite you over and unveil our pain which is holding up a strange book called How to Escape a Tsunami. We’d scratch our heads and talk about how we would do it, even though our town is landlocked.
We would sit a long time.
We would discuss whether we should pick up the book and read it, despite the monkeys implied warnings. You say, “Yes.”
There is nothing inside this book except the word, “RUN” and then hundreds of drawings. Sweeping bits of landscapes and a beacon of light on a mysterious mountaintop all painted in gold. Dozens of pages filled with tree roots, twisted and gorgeous– thirsty and thrilling. Still.
“Is that real gold?” I ask.
“Are these real places?” you ask.
We can barely make out the world in this strange book that tells us to run and shows us what the world could be, and how it is. It is a map that shows a way out of terror. It doesn’t matter which direction you go. Everywhere is safe, as long as you’re not alone.
I don’t know what love is anymore. And that is beautiful.