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6. Deja Vus

Today I summon deja vus.
It is still the same choreography.
The shapes of our beings, sprinkled in summer rain, our smiles golden, unfiltered, yet a little bit
grotesque,
because we basked in a victorious
anomaly.
We won a fate, in a manner of speaking, spinning fiction
that our friends believed.
Lousy, I heard, is what some call
us these days, we could never be
F. Scott Fitzgerald, or Poe,
or Woolf,
our signatures on flyleafs
is just their millennial joke.

And yet we are here.
Not there, but here,
still a space we can earn by being this foolish, we can now unburden ourselves from our
childhood fear of oblivion.
So we say, aren't we a blunder?
Our innards could regurgitate
what they spilled years and years ago, and we get the stiff nod.
Did we commit a well-orchestrated plunder of F. Scott Fitzgerald? Of Poe? Of Woolf?
Could we not swim the same ocean like they used to,
but in a different vessel?
Easy to do, for you no longer worry of falling to the 'edge' of our flat world like they did, some says,
we can't reach Shakespearehood
on online sites,
martyrs are born in epiphanies,
and not in usernames
and the glitter we spread is still dirt after the party.
It is funny in writing but the cynics are friends pouring wine over dinner
laughing, brows furrowing
over our victorious anomaly,
demanding we should just hit an iceberg and sink and fossilize as a wreck.

But we are here,
not there, but here,
and in the name
of all these deja vus,
let us swim in lifeboats,
if we may,
and let Shakespearehood be damned.
We can't reach heaven or hell anyway,
our signatures on flyleafs
are keys to Purgatory,
where we'll meet F. Scott Fitzgerald. Or Poe.
Or Woolf.
Probably, possibly, because
we could summon deja vus.