Deadlines do arrive at last, as expected, when the river is well known to be dry, waters never to return; the imminent move is here at last. Time to walk on, and it is better to keep it final and done.
I got converted back and recognized who I meant to be when we started off this peculiar saga; you may stay or not, though your nature might still be trying to make more of the few enduring puddles in the mud. Understand then, this is farewell, and there’s no shame in it.
We’re passing human instances, scenes we fill with narrative, a play we no longer believe. So time comes to leave the stage. I’ve been slinking towards the back door to the street until it’s official, and you need not worry. I no longer need your nostalgia, not even your forgiveness. I understand due dates and the life of rivers; the days for movement and the glow of last chapters phasing out. The narrative in my coming scenes doesn’t care too much, because the dry spell breathes all around us.
I can no longer let you create meanings because you never truly knew how to. I’m my own philosopher; it was never you. I wanted to believe your facts instead of nature, but now that war is over. My body is not inspired; my will won’t stand for bleakness; I cannot justify duty that doesn’t bring life to my heart.
I’ll surely get comfortable in finalities, faith will guide me through barren land, where not caring can be accepted as honorable; I don’t mind anymore about your state, your being; I’m dry and knowing in this random way, hoping for rain but not worried, expecting the chant of new water, new life, naturally akin to my next scene, initiated by the simple natural facts.
