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“If you can write down your passport number without having to look at your passport,” the border police said smugly, “your passport is definitely fake.”

What a training, I thought. Quietly, I felt sorry for him.

The three other police were fully armed. They were at least twice my size. When they walked me – one in front, one behind, and one at my side – I couldn’t help giggling.

“It gets really boring around here,” they said. But I kept waiting for a punch line.

About forty hours later, I finally gave up.

Is it for me that I love him,
or is it for him that he loves me?
There is no such thing as a union of souls –
much like there’s no such thing as a unicorn.
Ulysses came home with all his victory and only his dog recognized him,
like me. Only that I have no dog.

I want to believe, like him. But it’s easy for him.
He has no dog, but he has a life. Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t know
him. He doesn’t know me. Because I don’t know me. I doubt. Whether it is
for me that I love him, or whether it is
for him that he loves me.

Our bodies are merely vehicles of the perpetuation of memories.

Proteins cease with deaths and are reborn with birth. Eternal memories are then transferred to new neurons, forming new networks of old meanings, perpetuating ancient behaviours.

It is repulsive, really, my desire to rattle. But time decides and spirits grow. Adults become elderly and even pine trees die. When I die, I will count back every single breath, salute every single encounter, and smile at the end of it. I wish for lightness as I can’t seem to not fleet. Night and day churning turmoil deep in my gut, larger than myself.

I am writing fireflies and my stocking is ripped. Not big, just a small nick. Got somehow caught in between the pedal of my bike and something else mysterious. Guerilla gardening.