Writing to the past

again about you

I always thought I might find her, a shrivelled bloody meatball, hiding underneath a bench, in an all-white train station. Or perhaps not, this was someone else's dream sequence turned film. But the resemblance resonates, still.

Or maybe she got her wish again and again, to finally be written about by me, so that all may know what she went through in life (but not about mine).

I crouched, looked under, and continued, “Your scolding still haunts me, night and day. It's a ruined relic now, the useful bits blended into my council of psyches. But nevertheless it's the mother of inefficiencies and unoptimals somehow.”

She blinked, if you could see where on the meatball, and responded, “Please don't bother me, I'm now in the struggles of my next life. I've done more than enough in your current one, my now-past existence.”

“Yes.” I continued. “In simple repayment of gratitude, I'm helping you into your next seven generations, to be reborn from a meatball, into the full-grown flesh and bone you were meant to be restored to. Because I also share genes with you, from you onwards to ours after.

“But first I not only have to undo the immutable fears you hyper-conditioned into my body and mind, but also the other insidious invisibles as well: the dreads, dooms, glooms, trances, and hauntings.”

“So innumerable?” She singly blinked again, after her reply. “I couldn't know. I iterated my apologies before I left.”

“Which is why I carry with me the seven generations before, to recycle, reduce, and refuse the waste, and to reuse and repurpose what remains viable and relevant. You go on now, I stay to process the follow-up.”

“Oh.”