ϑ JOURNAL ϑ

He said he wanted to show me the Mediterranean. "The birthplace of humanity, where we all of us came from," he said.

We took two flights to reach France, and then one more to Morocco. There were no direct journeys under the cover of night. He held my hand throughout, my bones cracking from the pressure but I was much too distracted to feel the pain. Any pain.

He tried to kiss me, but I turned away.

"No more games," I said. "No more games or I leave."

"You already left," he said. "That's your mistake. I have nothing to lose."

So I let him kiss me. His lips are cold and his hands hung limp on his side as he did.

I would rather have returned to the field, barren as it must be now, or overrun by factories. Highways. I would have preferred the City of Light. I know my hiding places there.

Here on the shores of the sea, I feel exposed, as if the Sun may all of a sudden decide to shine from underneath the waves and expose us for what we are. A farce of humanity. Of love. A laughable mimicry of those we prey on.

Are we so different in the end? None of us want to die, though sometimes we don't want to breathe. Maybe neither of us understand what it is we live for or feel we deserve to exist.

The Mediterranean is pitch black, like the darkest night before dawn.