Live

5. A New Virtue

I was twenty when I started the way of the gypsies; I never stayed in one place, but only as a scent in the air,
just a smidge, perhaps a perfume,
for ex-lovers to worry about, because I speak half-truths. Which also my parents dreaded, because it meant I also speak half-foolish. So only in my solid imprints I became sessile, my dead grandmother would say what a waste, not having children at twenty five but isn't everything is?

From neutrons to protons to atoms this universe is constantly spinning, so I thought why wouldn't I, and go places. Tell me of a perfume that remained loyal to the scent it gives off after a long while, then I could tell you how Archimedes bathed a thousand times just to discover buoyancy. It's all about spinning. The fizz from the bottle when the wine is uncorked is what you celebrate, and it is spilled on the floor or on your dress, but I think it's not wasted.

Sometimes a poem would present itself to me as a shrouded saying of a neighbor in the morning, but I could not complain. I could not tell one perfume scent from another anyway. It just bombard my universe with half-truth, half-foolish verses. I could write a thousand times but maybe I could never discover a new virtue like Archimedes did on his bath, but I just liked spinning, and spinning, and spinning.

I just wish whenever I get dizzy I could exclaim, "Eureka! Eureka!"