manyfires

flaming paper airplanes and the fourth dimension

Sometimes I dream about love in different worlds.

In one world love is buried under the earth, like coal. Men and women in need of work are sent to mine it, knowing they may be killed by falling rocks or, years later, by the fine splinters of love that entered their lungs like dust long ago.

One world is new, and still wants to believe love is patient, love is kind, as people once believed that the earth was flat. A few visionaries rattle the bars of their prisons.

One world is old, and has made its peace with love, like a country whose people have learned to live
with a foreign occupation after years of blown up railroads and underground newspapers. The language of love is spoken in the offices and the shops; love’s anthem is sung in the schools and the flag of love raised in the mornings. A few revolutionaries rattle the bars of their prisons.

After many experiments, one world has discovered the secret of everlasting love. But only the rich can afford it; the poor and the foolish continue to scream, cry, threaten, cajole, and bleed all over and again in a lifetime.

And in one world, flight has replaced love. Instead of stretching their bodies like bridges from one soul’s shore to the next, people fold and unfold their hearts, trying to make the paper plane that will soar the highest, travel the furthest before it falls back to the ground.

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