[i]
☼ ○ ▬
We’ve traveled millions of miles in outer space and have finally reached contact with an alien race. Their appearance isn’t that much different than ours except they’re giants, their height being at least ten times higher than us. A toddler of their race would amount to about five feet. Later I’m trapped inside a pool containment facility. One of the alien humans is flinging these strange ninja stars in my direction. It’s understood that our crew, including myself, have developed superhuman abilities and in this instance it’s not difficult to dodge and shield myself from the dangerous projectiles. After successfully protecting myself the aliens decide I’m worthy enough to step inside their world. I meet a 12-year-old girl. Of course she’s like seven feet tall. Even though she’s young in age and looks, it’s understood that she’s already lived 2,000 years. The life span of this alien race averages to about 20,000 years. So they age slowly as their intelligence rapidly progresses. It’s understood they know how to speak every single language from earth. I ask the 12-year-old, “So what do you call us humans in your language?” She answers something that sounds like, “Ya-yeh-yoo.”
▬ ○ ☼
Waking up shortly after 12:30 p.m.
Oatmeal with Milk, Brown Sugar, and Bananas.
Aysena messages me something sweet while I’m eating my oatmeal.
“I really wish I were falling asleep tonight spooning you. I really wish I were waking up tomorrow to your sleepy smile. I really wish you were near always.”
Considering some of the rockiness we’ve been experiencing, the bittersweet longings, and the bouts of regret for still having feelings for each other when we’re both thousands of miles apart, this is mildly conflicting, especially when another person just confessed somewhat innocent feelings towards me last night.
I run some errands and rush back home. I’m supposed to talk with Aysena on Skype but both of us are on a time constraint. She’s immediately sad faced and solemn stricken when she appears on the computer screen. Somehow, through both of our deprived and confusing feelings, the conversation turns sour. It’s just too much, for her and for me. She doesn’t want to talk anymore and threatens to delete our communications on Facebook. I don’t understand why it has to be so dramatic. I’m frazzled and upset.
...
And now Art is in the house waiting on me to be finished. I have to go. We end the conversation and that’s that. Ugh. Just depressing.
On the tennis courts with Art. It’s drizzling but that doesn’t stop us from playing a few matches. In the end he wins.
Back home. I notice Aysena really did restrict my access to her Facebook and VK. But that doesn’t stop me from sending an email. I don’t necessarily take the plea stance but I speak my mind and try to calm down the stressful connection between her and I. The problem is there isn’t any future for us. Trying to get anyone from another country (especially Russia) into America legally and successfully is probably the most difficult thing to accomplish. It’s almost damn near impossible unless you have a lot of money and time. It’s hard to accept but I think this relationship between Aysena and I was meant only for a season. As much as I want to deny it I think it’s over.
...
When one door closes another one opens.
Mango Greek Yogurt. Kinder Chocolate.
Doing laundry.
Lemon Breaded Swai Fillet with Onions, Peppers, Kale, Carrots, and Couscous.
Chris Remaley comes over. Up in my room he recants stories of his merchant marine travels and his latest romantic ventures while I upload some video footage from past Musicplayer and Tokyo shows on his computer.
Downstairs, Wyatt and Richie are collaborating on some art. James is raving about broccoli. I’m dribbling the basketball around practicing my ball handling skills.
Popcorn and Mango.
Watching the movie about Pistol Pete.
Sleep 4:30 a.m.
[i] Image by me.
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