Everything Hits At Once


My memories are becoming memories of memories. I can't remember how it really was. It's as if we are playing a nightly theater behind my eyelids. We're always changing roles; you play the villain and I'm the victim. Now the scene replays, the roles are reversed.

I might be remembering things wrong. As I write this sentence, 50,000 cells in my body are dying. 50,000 new cells are being created, each one without your name coded in my genes like some kind of virus.

The point is, I'm not the same person when I met you. Literally. The very cells in my bones have died, been replaced, and have died again. My stomach lining was replaced in four days, so that the acid in your words couldn't eat through me. It took five months to change my skin (harder this time, of course — it is, afterall, my first line of defense). My liver, with its 500 functions — one of them trying to filter out the toxic blame you let flood my bloodstream — regenerated in six months.

The miracle of this life is the centuries of evolution that took place to make the idea of you even possible. That the entire history of human life is just an elaborate dominoes of events that led to you. If history could be redone, if I could push the tears up my cheeks and back into my eyes, so that planes will fly out of buildings and the atomic bombs will fly up into the planes, if history could un-goose-step across Europe, if the machetes attached hands to limbs by a simple upward motion, there could never be a more perfect you.

Evolution isn't a survival of the fittest, it's an experimentation of beauty. In the filter of you, historical events align like stars, and human life is worth all the work it takes to live it.

Everything hits at once. I'm letting you go, one cell at a time, so that the you that will align all of my maladies, all of my tragedies, can enter my life.


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