Once upon a time in the whirlwind of love, cemented in the heart of the very evil frowning society, then a few years into blue tint photos by the sea, a couple of months with the newly born daughter and a few arid years past, someone took the trouble to drag it in our bitter chance dialogs over fried eggs and orange juice. You spelled it, I signed, we sealed the pending hunch, it wasn't meant to be. For the daughter who now knows, who can spell it as well as us, it is called s-e-p-a-r-a-t-i-o-n. Divorces have an epistemology. Let me locate it for you.
They exist in films, imagination, they form a characteristic salient feature of the bad houses with dim lights that balance the diabetic good of our neighborhood, they are placed in drunken adulthood, abusive childhood, impulsive youth and a couple of 'changed-man/woman' experiences later, they finish with a big dramatic bang. Do you see? They define bad houses, bad parents, bad kids, bad homework, fear of intimacy, stigma, burden, baggage and a debris of flooding photos and clothes out of the attic. Do you see, you two? You brought them conclusively to the finer side of delightful household disagreements. You pin pointed the finely carved hollows of all our tree-houses. Such confusion, such dreadful thoughts come to me, if mine will end up like you. After all, I was one of the kids in the blue sea photos.
Why mustn't you be quiet and live like others do, half your life is already gone, the half promises to be a cycle of retrospective mourning followed by epiphanies of the metamorphosed life, discourses on change, on making colder harder selves, and a few vengeful afternoons later, the wrinkles will wash all this confidence away. For lovers to commit and publicize, for married and betrothed people to eulogize, for panegyric romeo tales, and for us unwilling to enter into the holy familial bonds, you must stay. Fight within the room and sleep over it, be doomed over that one hasty wink and stolen kisses. Make believe.