Gilipollas

Sometimes I fear the night here in the Canary Islands, when the skies at times are dark orange and ominous, jaffa-like, as if signalling something egregious is about to happen, then the next day arrives and nothing does happen, so I go about thinking that that is probably even worse than the doom that never occurred. Nothing much of value happens here. Life swivels slow and steady, a perfect setting to loaf about, be completely still and nondescript. I could see myself settling down here, somewhere idyllic. But this fantasy only works under a massive caveat.

The whole island to me is associated with images of her, and so if I do decide to do something worthwhile down the line, absent the person in question, then it would be very much like walking on eggshells around people. Even if the morrow provides no concrete assertions of what this image would have to be, I still find that that thought is reassuring knowing that I have similar reveries about Italy from the time I went there, now so long ago. This place wins solely by virtue of recency bias, but both have their charms.

The pain yet overwhelms still, but I cannot put it aside. I have to believe that this is just a phase. That this phantom pain of where my heart used to be will somehow flourish again, and I do not hold anything against her. I would have probably done the same thing if the roles were reversed. It just stings ceaselessly.

A week will pass by so soon, and another one will come, and fare thee well. What was all this for?