#constance dejong

A thick dense black substance that creeps across the years, painting them out one by one until they’re all covered up: 1976, 1975, 1974, 1973, 1972, 1971, 1970, 1969. They’re all one now. One big black hole. They’re nothing but a separation; an empty space between two places: the place you left and the place you’ve come to.

For once, if just for one teensy instant, you’re not making distinctions about where you stop and where anything else begins. Where you’re heading or what you’re going to call it. There’s no words for these feelings once they start. Give in and these feelings speak for themselves. They tell you you’re alive.

An instant can be an event. An instant can be a fatal event. An instant is sufficient. I’m not fooling: that’s all it took. All at once my heart became a place full of light. All aflame. A brilliant shrine. A star. It’s still a heart. It’s 1975 and I’m not sorry I’ve died for love.