Morella

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It seems important to have a place to belong to, a constant unchanging space where you can hibernate, take a pause from life and passively flip through its pages like a dream, instead of having to live every moment so intensely and meticulously.

We never have the chance to know each other very well. Things always end abruptly and we always find ourselves moving away and facing a new beginning.

You always slumber then come back and everything starts anew.

You killed yourself and then woke up the next day, pale, like Ligeia reborn, but you were not horrible; you were miserable, with your thick hair, pallid skin, and mournful grin. Morella, your soul never dies, but every day, your body withers, your hair becomes thin, and you’re covered with wrinkled layers of skin.

The first time you came back, I called you Morella; you told me it’s not your name.

The second time you came back, you looked like the same Morella I know, but slightly sadder. I called you Morella; you looked at me sharply through your cascading hair and said so roughly, “Simone!”

The third time you came back, I called you Morella; but still you insisted otherwise.

Morella, I have a few words I want to tell you.

Whoever meets you is bound to suffer from a bout of deep depression. Your deathless soul craves the one thing we all fear and try to postpone: death. You are life backfiring on itself. The people who meet you are enchanted by you by your voice, stupefied by your hair, hungered by your skin. The enchanted, stupefied, hungered people soon realize what kind of whirlpool you spin.

I always start to love you but then I end up hating you. I try to hate you but then I end up loving you. You play with your dolls and your pins and you play with me singularly, biding your time, devising the perfect plan. I am used to you always coming back, sweet lovely awful horrible Morella. I love the first moments when I see you return, but I dread the second, third, fourth, fifth moments. I love the last moment when you close your eyes. You make the sky turn into porcelain and you break it with your high-pitched silence, and it rains porcelain shards which cut me and break me and kill me with the gleaning memories of glee which pierce through me and glorify a death-like state of grief.

I thought that it’s about time that I go away, that I flee, for I cannot suffer anymore from such fluctuating misery.

To whom will you return now that I have gone away? It’s only now that I realize that this story is your hell and not mine. And for a second I am at relieved that I have escaped the tight hell of a writer, but my pen has erupted right now and I can remember. I write this because you’re making me suffer, because you’ve left without a word or a notice; you left too soon. There is no better way to dare the abyss of your aloofness than to write these words. I wish I can say that these are the last words you’ll make me suffer, that the pain will cease with the end of this sentence, but three dots mark it and not one, for I am hoping that you’ll return once again, that you’ll nourish my grapevine and get rid of the dry raisins; that I’ll enjoy another moment in which I’ll gasp and stand astonished by your shiny ebony hair, your anaemic ashen obsidian skin and your enchanting, mesmeric grin; however, until then, I just can’t get you off of my mind…

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