Shh, stop. Morality is about stopping yourself, I can’t hide behind a golden mask and say I’m from New Orleans, a hurricane could come tomorrow or your California could burn, we’re spectacularly doomed, kiss me, what’s the point of not –
The whole planet is rupturing rapturously, glaciers are water and summer is snow, rain comes with no rhythm, wildfires go at random, a game we’re playing now, with nature showing us who will always win. Did lay out highways endlessly stretching like a vulva giving birth did it make us happy to be always giving birth to something new and something fast and something chrome and something fast did it make us happy to show the trees that this planet belonged to us? Yes, power made us happy, isn’t that what killed us, all this happy, so much happy that we couldn’t stop?
We could turn off the air conditioners, learn to love the water’s temperature and keep it clear. We could turn off the heaters, warm up close to one another. We could turn off everything, we could stop. Love is knowing when to stop.
I want to look at you but I like your eyes hot on my back. When I know you’re ready to beg me for relief, I turn.
“Did you miss me?” you ask, a crack in your voice.
“It doesn’t really work like that.”
“But we can still…” you start.
“Don’t guess any of it,” I tell you. “Don’t wonder, don’t imagine, just…”
“How much time do you have?” Continue reading “Fire, Water, Ghost, by Sarah Neilson”