Balzac Saw This Too

Paris — Spring 2000, on the number 4 line

In this little space you see pictures that last a lifetime. A familiar face smiles and converses with an old friend, her bright eyes occasionally watching you as you remember.

But she isn’t her nor will she ever be her and that’s probably a good thing, for you’re sure she doesn’t know how fortunate that makes her.

For a moment you’re hurled into the past and for that moment you recognize the goodness you found in her. This one possesses it — even if only through projection and/or comparison — as a monument to Balzac watches the sea of strange faces remain totally unaware.

Suds, spores, smoke — we have fallen like statues on the grass. Hush! Her face falls slowly on your sleeve. Easter is coming — a year has passed so quickly. Time lapses between lips, warm and naked under her dress. We are all sitting here frozen by apathy, crouching down, the mirror records our despair. You’re kicking within the womb, very wise and dripping into the pudding basin. Smear it on bread. They say we love our own reflection in the faces of others but it’s easy to burst through all the temporal stuff and delude ourselves.

Bright eyes and a pretty smile means nothing in the scheme of things. The lines etched along the corners of her eyes and the vague creases around her mouth only seem to kick up shit you don’t want to remember yet you sit here and smile, wonder if she had seen you somewhere before. You take her words, her apparent interest, and her occasional smiles in stride, since you know sooner or later she won’t want to know you anymore.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.