Her epiphany. She had her epiphany. An announcement to the end. It all was clear as she blinked her eyes. She loved him in soul and body. However, she knew the end was near. Epiphany counts the steps to the end of a story. At first love is excitement and energy. Lovers are able to have sex for uncountable hours just like animals in season. There is time to name the stars in the sky, dry drops of oceans, select every flake of snow. There is time to run going nowhere, to sing louder than Luciano Pavarotti, to write and read a whole bible of love messages. And then, the excitement was gone and the energy has vanished. She is tired. Tired of loving. Loving is hard. It is a pathogenic agent. It stills body vitality. Time says it is almost twenty years since his eyes met her smile. She is not a girl anymore. Told her the mirror. Time punishes bodies and lovers. “Let’s spend the night together?” I’m not in the mood. Sex only at holidays. No time to see stars, drops in oceans or flakes of snow. No time to run, to sing, to write or read. He counts the pages of her letters now: “Eight pages – front and back!” One of her friends dyed today. Another announcement to the end. Maybe Morrison was right. The end is our only friend. Something no one can escape from.
Image by *lostbooks on DeviantArt
