It is the aftermath. Here, perhaps, the aftermath of everything. It seems that everything happens posthumously. Air, eyes, beliefs, regrets, flashes, and seasons. People arrive after the death. Wounds mend only when it is all about to end. Long-lost solace steps into the home once the house has surrendered all its walls and the rain has washed away the last traces within it. The residents return long after the home has burned, like blood rushing through veins when the heart has already stopped pumping.
All of them stand at the center of the room, and it is all done and said. Eyes are lowered, and there are so many things left to discuss. Hundreds of things to resolve. A fine sheath of displeasure that must be carefully sensed and lifted away. But who will stay? Stay, and listen. Listen to someone’s words and everyone’s agonies. It never gets cleaned up, and he simply steps out of the room, leaving the other behind.
Here, curtains hang between the relationships while everything is set ablaze. There could be a suffocation of agony and anguish stirring between the words in the end.
And they remain.
And as always, these words remain lingering in the air.
