We Had Seasons in the Sun

We Had Seasons in the Sun

Let’s pretend that any of this matters. We make our plans…like people do, with all these grandiose ideas about living happily ever after. No one lives that way; it’s just something on paper. The stuff of romance novels. The truth is we don’t matter. None of this matters. I will lie awake in bed next to you, night after night while you sleep. Restless—I will smile at the way you sleep unaware: the crushing weight; the atmosphere. You are light like that. I am glad you are in the world. And you are light: but I don’t think that it can make much difference. Read Revelations? Read revolutionaries? Read Emily Dickinson? Fuck that. That wordy old tart can’t show me anything. The doctor told us to read Revelations. But his message was clear: put your head between your legs and kiss your ass goodbye, as my father used to say when I was a little girl. Our freedom fighter declares that football season is over. Our future is an apocalyptic story from an ancient book.

I wanted him to incite violence, call us to action, kick us in the ass. But he patted us on the head and sent us to bed, went out for a smoke and never came back. The Kids Are Alright though, I see the connection. See you later, so long. But I’m getting distracted. I’m getting older and I’ve begun to grow a girlstache. This happened almost overnight. I play with the hairs on my lip while you fuck around on the computer. I’m running out of time.
Summer is here again and my succulents are sucking the soil dry. I’m erratic about watering them and they are dying—shriveled, crusty and dry. But they are bursting out of the pots at the same time—growing over the side of the sepia pot…roots exposed. So, if they don’t die of dehydration, the suffocation will do them in. Big plants in small pots, I suppose. It’s hard to breathe when you go outside now. I went to see the artist. We did not have time to drink vodka or listen to loud music in a small Minnesota town. I wondered if I’d be able to breathe better there; the heat here is tyrannical. No place is a haven from the suffocation. I’d been waiting to get on the road for a month now, twitching and fidgeting, impatient to take the long way home. The road is the only place where you can wrap your brain around the apocalypse and that wasted feeling you get when you see it coming, but still have so much to do. The journey was tainted. I came back broken. No solace, but I still think the road was good.
There were many things I was supposed to do with my life and I’ve done nothing. I will lie awake at night next to you and all day I will sleep. We will grow old together and be very happy in a safe suburban sort of way. I will give up…the way all the freedom fighters do. We will never take vacation. Our love will be my only joy.
I was raised in the suburbs. My father taught me, if it’s not fun, it’s not worth doing. God, I hardly do anything worth doing anymore. This isn’t working. You work. This world isn’t working. William would know what to do…but The World is Too Much With Us, it’s true. Revelations.

 

 

Copyright © 2012 Katie Jensen
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