Your calloused hands brush against the material and you wonder why such an influx of grief doesn’t even cause a ripple against the bubbles of those around you. That selfish myriad of pain, deflected against their own individual atmospheres as it scuffles and scratches and screams against your shell. But it’s only as the wounds heal that you realise it’s what you remember that hurts the most, the memories that sting and the illusions that scab over the wounds. Who knows if what you believe about the past, about those that have gone, is true? The most realistic fact you see, grows from that seed planted within you. Whether filled with doubt, or jealousy or lies. It’s not what’s true, it’s what you believe to be true and yet that line between the real world and that one in your head, you feel it fade, the memories mixing with the maudlin truth and what you wish it to be.
There’s a Greek saying “Με γεια” or “wear it in good health”. But how can the dead wear the memories from their life. The coat gets passed on and you stitch and you sew more patchwork squares more memories into, more laughs and cries and tears and goodbyes and paths and roads, more joy, and pathetic loads until it gets too heavy for you to carry, you can’t hold it anymore, your time is up and you must pass it onto the next fateful victim of life. So why bask in your unfortunate pretences as others push back against their own individual cracks in their bubbles because the fact is, nobody really cares. Because nothing really matters unless you believe it does. We are but specks of dust in yiya’s house and one day, we will be blown away and forgotten along with that coat of lies, because who knows if any of this is real; this sheet of paper could be a figment of your imagination, a dream or a realisation of which you wish and one day believe to be true. So, hold on tightly to that coat and never forget the truth. Let the scars heal and the scratches bleed but then sew them into your story, into your reality. And. Με γεια.