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Platform
- Lady Ronit
- Jan 9
- 2 min read
We sat on the platform. He lied, and I looked into his eyes.
I don’t understand.
Quietly cast into the wind. Almost furtively, nearly with guilt. Farewell, Happiness.
A few years later, I stand on the same platform, bidding farewell to an entirely Different Happiness, an entirely Different Man. I see it projected into the future, through the lens of my imagination—not so distant, really. It’s funny.
Life is like a red balloon, floating somewhere among the clouds in this dreadful, gusty December wind. Twenty milligrams of melatonin swallowed at dawn. Not to die, fortunately.
Every one of my memories is enshrined in an extraordinary mysticism, ever since I elevated myself through my God complex into a completely new abyss. Wearing the mask of hedonism, I’ve somehow become My Own God—one who coexists with HaShem, with That Which Is Common to Us All. This self-made divinity stretches beyond the confines of my little world, growing bolder, asserting control, dictating terms to My Man, My Woman, My Child.
I am a drifting ship. Whatever grants meaning. When you manipulate so deftly, the world around you loses its own. Spontaneity becomes impossible.
So I play jazz to feel something. I am delicately woven cotton and spiderweb. Ecstasy comes unexpectedly fast. He has paternal inclinations, wants to be a father. But that kid is almost my peer. Droplets of blood drip from my hair as I lean back against the tub. Is water becoming blood?
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