Pangea Ultima.

That's what they're calling it. 250 years from now, the war between land and earth would have finally settled; it seems that the fate of this planet is to end up divided forever by her own children — Land and water. According to geologists, we will end up back with what the earth was, nascent, primitive and eager. The land will breathe and swell and we might be particles in the air or six legged creatures living in water, watching land crash against the ocean. And we will watch as the mother weeps.

Time now, time right here, he records because he knows he must. He puts red flags where hearts break, he cleans up after cupid. But when the earth's heart breaks, our little red flags will be shaken off. How do you comfort a planet? How do you kiss her to sleep or wake her up? Is time deep enough, does he take the untrodden path when needed?

Now how all of this happens is an interesting read. Oceanic plates will collide against other continental plates leading to something called 'subduction', i.e., the oceanic plate slips beaneath the continental plate, sinking into the earth's mantle. At the same time, continents will be drifting apart, leading to the widening of ocean beds. The normal course of nature is that these two opposing forces are balanced by each other, leading to oceans and continents maintaining their peace somehow. In due course, however, they will differ and the seas will contract, land masses will unite and the planet will settle into a chunk of land and a huge mass of ocean. She will end the way she was born. Foetal, barren and unloved.

This is what a heartbreak is. The violent change of a planet into something unfamiliar, something unpleasantly new, something rippping across, terrifying, it's almost beautiful. This is what a heartbreak is, the final divide between what is yours and what you thought was yours. It is the final point when two opposing forces cease to battle against each other.

Pangea Ultima. Whoever thought.

One year later

- I miss you...

~ Give it some time... It'll get better.

- ... Of course. Thanks. Night.

~ You ok? Is something bothering you?

~ Hey?

- Nothing. Just wanted to say that. Good night.

~ Ok. Good night.

There is this picture in my head. It haunts me like a nail stuck in my heel. I have this picture of you planting a seed, your feet buried deep in wet mud as you plant yourself along with the seed. You are looking down intently wondering if it would immediately sprout and grow into a golden beanstalk. Then again, your understanding of today is what ties you down. And oh it makes you so beautiful.

You must be three; I have not the slightest idea of how you look now, let alone when all of just three years. Curly hair and a sly smile under your frock, your words almost slip out like water sprinkles onto my hand. I watch in awe as you mould the Earth in your hands. I watch as She obliges. I watch as you make little sounds, you are making life after all. You are creating life within the shadows of five tiny fingers and all I can do is watch. All I can do is know that I will fall in love with you over and over again, year after year when you plant a seed every birthday. I know that you'll break my heart when you're 26. I know when you caress the soil that I will still love you then. So much that I know, and yet I can do nothing with the Everything between the shadows of my fingers. The past, the present and the future mix and converge in creases of my palm.

You sketched my life as a joke, didn't you?

Yellow paper and you're all of five. You drew my fingers and then my lips and all the lines in between. My language is slipping and all I can do is watch, watch as you make me a child again, watch as you put me back right where I came from. How many times do I have to let go?

You're all of three and I'm in love, again. This sacred curse is an eclipse. You will be back and the soil will grow dark, again.

And all I can do is watch.

Have you ever tried to forgive?

Of course I have. Forgiveness is the ticket to a lighter heart, but then again, something human in me pulls me back and twists my face. It makes me frown and cry alone when I shower. It makes me want to tear this forgiveness into bits of paper that can never be reassembled. Of course I have tried to forgive. You think I want to keep this crap inside of myself?

Then why don't you?

Because that human in me tells me that it's ok to be human. And for that single moment, I realize that could be greater than forgiveness. Then I sink into this sacred anger that lasts for a while. Forgiveness can wait, it's just a mile away from anger. You need to cross anger to forgive. Simple.

A circular world and feet that curve.

We have claws. No, not hands, not feet. Claws, like the arms of a goddess pouring out of her torso, out of her legs, out of her feet, out of her mind; claws that want to hold on to something. Curved feet help achieve that. It straightens this circular world.

We hold on for dear life and go about every day wondering if gravity will give up on us and let us fall again. Ah the fear! We are people of an afraid world, running, lying, fooling ourselves and our neighbours of what we truly are. Don't you snort now, you know it better than I do.

God is nothing more than a heroic representation of our cowardice. Glorify everything that we will never be capable of and pray for it. Set rules for permanancy and mundanity. No one will notice, will they?

You thought I would not notice too. But it was quite hard to escape how you threw all your arms out for me, golden ring on a fishing hook. I took it. Then you caught on, your palms glued onto mine with the promise of tomorrow. But here I am, in tomorrow and the couch is still cold. Did the circular world straighten?

Of course, what are those wings for anyway?

Life is an onion. I never understood that.
Pity that I now quite understand it at 21.

A closet of words.

Rickety-wooden-termite-ridden-dusty-closet. Your silken black hair against pure white sheets. Morning whispers from the child in you. There are very few things here that I will take back with me.

That dreamcatcher by the door should stay. How do you name a colour that has travelled through time, dirt and reason? Do you code it? Dirt has a colour, so does time and reason. Spectrums with dog tags. Tie the rainbow down now. My dreamcatcher still has your wishes in it, leashed and hopeful.

A closet of words can lead to the birth of a whole new social system. Some words must have clustered up into sentences. Small short strong ones and lengthy haughty boring ones. Then there are the phrases that are high up the food-chain because they hide a lot more than they reveal. Nature of mankind I think, has seeped into the language on his tongue. Language and its artificial intelligence; that closet is just bursting at the seams. You stored your words in there too, didn't you?

The sun spills across clean window sills, liquid wood helping them find their way to me. You liked it all clean before you left, sweeping dust into spaces between wood and concrete. Think I will sit here a while. I can still smell the dust. This cold white couch is strangely inviting and the closet still mumbles in its sleep.

I am just a visitor in our home anyway.