She found me on january 9th (2015) where I’ve met all the people who are tragically far away from me, thanks Okcupid.
With a “You look like a sweetheart” texted from an underground metro in Wreck City and a reply from a black hole inside the jaws of a lion, began a constant creative marathon we called friendship.
She taught me more about writing than any literature class or book ever could as she ripped the fear out of me. An erratic poet named us succubus sisters and described our modus operandi, as if we were running a criminal operation, to sleep deprive everyone we met in order to weaken them for undisclosed motives.
One of my terrible ideas was to experiment with polyphasic sleep because we already were dysfunctional insomniacs. It was surrealist to wake up from a nap to a lawyer making breakfast 2175 km away talking about his psychedelic experiences in Burning Man, Farah’s erotic short stories, someone making jewelry late at night, an intense debate, a strange human fixing a computer while reciting beautiful nonsenses, her laugher, intermittent interventions of wisdom from a rat with horrible internet connection in a magic land close to the lion I lived inside of.
A mutual friend discussing conspiracy theories about our government and getting interrupted by his naked brother looking for a mysterious object in his room, that same friend sharing private details about our former president’s sex life from a trusted source… mutual friend with which I rode that same metro in Wreck City last december remembering the virtual home we all lived in for five months.
Farah burned becoming an adult between the Morgan Freeman-like voice of recovery and the wild howl of madness and somewhere during that ultraviolent spring I suddenly had to fake being a functional sane human in a five star four diamond business hotel inside that ferocious lion while processing her slow disappearance. Angry, because I couldn’t understand any of her messages, then guilty for breaking the promise to find her for not being able to break the code.
Even if your father says you’re out of the country I’m not the only one who thinks you are close. Your Facebook, a virtual mailbox, abandoned for almost a year now is the path some of your friends follow to ask Gaby, Gabby, Gabrielle, and Ginny about the whereabouts of Farah, Re, Inna, and Regina.
Seems like adulthood’s rite of passage starts traversing fire and finishes when you’re able to hold your ashes together. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I agreed to run away with you to paradise with the King of gypsies or to conquer a city of our own and I just miss you.
If I never see you again.
I will always carry you
Outside… – Bukowski