F is for fallacy.
PT I.
Lay your head on the freshly washed pillow that you bought at IKEA, it’s 8:00 PM, you haven’t slept. The dominical family meeting always gets away with the best of your politeness, understanding and forbearance, but you are fine with it anyways, aren’t you? Who else will calmly serve your inner monster but the ones who called him out, so recapitulate on the late hours, when aunt Hilda believed she could still pull that jealousy driven drama about an allegedly existent mistress on her husband's life,
Oh Hilda, c’mon, he’s 65 years old now, he wouldn’t handle one anyways一 you claim, because age is the greatest of the barriers, and the strongest of the shields, ain’t it? 一I reckon he must be cheating you with that pizza slide you hid on the refrigerator. Ease.
Each Sunday It takes place on a different house, you are still the mediator no matter what, that widely known attitude of yours to deal with drama is the reason why your mother saves you extra pie whenever she bakes her glorious banana cake. I will admit that you were a fun show, a ridiculously pretty female, the stereotype, a gazelle. An unusually calm woman who found enjoyment on the innocuous activity of thought. We met, and I couldn’t recognize the itchiness on your fingertips, the pouring on your eyes nor the twinkling of your feet whenever I spoke, and it’s not until now how I understand this activities as a transcendental fact of your persona. The unavoidable attachment to concepts, that’s the monologue on which your discourse rests, indistinctly of who watched, you were, and subsisted as a coalition of my worse fears and my most noble fixations.
I cringed a little at your wilderness, the wide spectrum on which you moved, as the most happy of the mortals I saw you swift gracefully among the darkest of your days, move undoubtedly towards the light, but light mistook the movement as a competence, you were always trying to reach it, and it was always trying to not be cracked by you, a prism.
Got milkshake?, I laughed, I was about to suffer an overdose, who were you trying to beat? What was that which we were struggling to overcome? I asked, you looked at me with your almond eyes and I understood how this whole tactic was not about a pronoun. Am I the only one who is approaching the tangible? The ever destructive structure of the I?
My brittle jocularity, you.
