Sentence (A Billion Lies and a Storm)
Prabda Yoon
September 2008
Ultimate Truth is made up of about a billion lies. We live in one of those lies and everyday you ask me where you put your book of memories. I know the answer but I never tell you because it is better to live with mysteries. I watch you burn your old clothes and you tell me about the blue dress you wore only once, on your sixteenth birthday. It burns beautifully. We must destroy everything in the house before the storm comes because we don’t want it to know who we are, what we did, how we lived, what we loved, and where we’re going. Don’t worry about the book you’re looking for. The storm can’t take it away. It is yours and yours alone.
Gray is the most underrated color because it knows too much. People abhor knowledge, though they say otherwise. People always say otherwise. It makes me sad to see you walk slowly into the pond and turn around to smile, as if you’re about to evaporate. I must be weak because I smile back, sometimes I wave to show support, but I am almost always thinking, “the water must be cold and it doesn’t want you there.” The grayness appears above like a blanket of fear and we should get going.
I am with you and we are moving too fast through the city. You think it’s out of love but for me it’s a necessity. We must be together and we must do this. I don’t love you. Like gravity, like electricity, like that scent you get when falling down on wet dirt, we must be the way we are now. It is law and it is this law that makes us whole. How? Must you always spoil the magic?
We come upon a sign that says “Go Away at Your Own Risk.” We sit and rest, looking in silent at our house in the distance. It is being blown away. A moment later the house is no more, the house which took a thousand years to build and a thousand more to paint. We are homeless, tired, and free. Suddenly we feel something new. Perhaps it can be called distrust. You get up and, as usual, ask about your book of memories. I keep my mouth shut. You start to walk away just as I wonder what you looked like in the blue dress at sixteen.
Before you disappear into the dark forest, you turn around and ask me a question. I answer in a few words. My answer is a lie. It doesn’t really matter. You never believe my words anyway. No one does. I get up and start to take down the sign. The storm will catch up with me, but you will be fine.
Prabda Yoon
September 2008
Ultimate Truth is made up of about a billion lies. We live in one of those lies and everyday you ask me where you put your book of memories. I know the answer but I never tell you because it is better to live with mysteries. I watch you burn your old clothes and you tell me about the blue dress you wore only once, on your sixteenth birthday. It burns beautifully. We must destroy everything in the house before the storm comes because we don’t want it to know who we are, what we did, how we lived, what we loved, and where we’re going. Don’t worry about the book you’re looking for. The storm can’t take it away. It is yours and yours alone.
Gray is the most underrated color because it knows too much. People abhor knowledge, though they say otherwise. People always say otherwise. It makes me sad to see you walk slowly into the pond and turn around to smile, as if you’re about to evaporate. I must be weak because I smile back, sometimes I wave to show support, but I am almost always thinking, “the water must be cold and it doesn’t want you there.” The grayness appears above like a blanket of fear and we should get going.
I am with you and we are moving too fast through the city. You think it’s out of love but for me it’s a necessity. We must be together and we must do this. I don’t love you. Like gravity, like electricity, like that scent you get when falling down on wet dirt, we must be the way we are now. It is law and it is this law that makes us whole. How? Must you always spoil the magic?
We come upon a sign that says “Go Away at Your Own Risk.” We sit and rest, looking in silent at our house in the distance. It is being blown away. A moment later the house is no more, the house which took a thousand years to build and a thousand more to paint. We are homeless, tired, and free. Suddenly we feel something new. Perhaps it can be called distrust. You get up and, as usual, ask about your book of memories. I keep my mouth shut. You start to walk away just as I wonder what you looked like in the blue dress at sixteen.
Before you disappear into the dark forest, you turn around and ask me a question. I answer in a few words. My answer is a lie. It doesn’t really matter. You never believe my words anyway. No one does. I get up and start to take down the sign. The storm will catch up with me, but you will be fine.
