A Cold War? In this heat?
As she stirred absentmindedly in the kitchen, the boring woman’s gaze flickered to the sound of the door unlocking. With a squeak, it swung open, revealing her husband. “Oh, you’re home?” she asked, her flat tone betraying there were no other words on her tongue, apart from speaking platitudes.
I’ve never truly appreciated wasting the value of words by confirming the ordinary.
Expressing oneself to say nothing is a missed opportunity. Transforming a concept into tangible truth creates meaning.
(Maybe that’s why I had no voice to speak.
That and having nothing left to say.)
So, there will be no valuable point in bitching about the abnormally hot weather we’re enduring these days.
But man, is it hot today.
There’s not enough breath in our lungs, as it’s ablaze; getting a glass of water feels like an act of defiance.
Running errands becomes torture as blood vessels dilate, skin burns, and surviving cells might mutate beyond repair.
What’s the use in complaining when everyone sweats under the same sky, chasing shadows on the same patches of grass?
(I was promised a storm, yet all I got were timid winds.
I was promised the world and ended up with empty space somewhere left of my sternum.)
Despite this unbearable heat driving us to desperation, there’s a place where hard hearts hide a name.
(He-who-must-be-named)
There’s an endless stretch of space and time, where the reduction in the temperature reaches a glacial magnitude.
There’s a Cold War happening in the middle of everything, consuming the will to survive, reaching, stretching, expanding across unseen boundaries.
(At this point in this true story where *only the facts are changed* it’s worth noting my awareness of the futility of it all.
Singing the same song countless others have sung — does originality even matter in a world where art is artificial, anyways?)
I am aware there are more pressing topics at hand, more relevant opinions to voice.
Yet, here we are, debating a statement with strangers on the internet. Where are all the keyboard warriors now?
But I digress.
There’s a certain catharsis in unleashing unchecked thoughts, where the significance isn’t vital for the universe’s economic prospects.
Strong arguments fall voiceless, eclipsed only by minor inconveniences threatening our comfort.
I digress again.
A Cold War wages without visible large-scale fighting.
Yet, each side advertises opposing forces.
There’s no skirmish, no explosive disputes in the supplement aisle, but there’s a visible reaction — if you look closely.
Looking — what a joke. Staring down implies courage, directing your gaze demands resolution, looking out means being present.
Frankly, I’ve developed a profound aversion to the aforementioned.
The Cold War is easier.
Be ice, discount the elated pulse, avert your gaze.
The girl with enough courage and true grit has left the building, you should leave a voicemail; perhaps she’ll listen while she runs from her problems, sunlight in her eyes.
It’s easy to retreat when you dread the consequences.
(“Self Care, you do you, boo.”)
Self-shame, pity, and loathing are more compelling than vulnerability.
And yet, with my mind’s eye, I reach.
Reach.
Forward, always forward.
The clock is tic tac toe-ing and time is nothing but wasted.
In our reach.
It’s easy to win a Cold War when you’re the only one fighting.
The Eastern Front moved on, conquering new territories while I stayed still, protecting the one virgin piece of land left unruffled.
Meanwhile, on the opposing ends of the barricade, there’s no struggle, no wrath, no one is going on a warpath over whose silence is more Siberian, and whose wits have reached their ends.
All is quiet on the Eastern front.
The heatwave dissolves under the closed canopy, intrusive memories buried beneath forest floor litter, thoughts silenced by physically demanding tasks.
Or at least, that’s my assumption.
There’s no room for highly skilled spies in one’s domestic affairs.
Here’s the thing — I’m not particularly proud of breaking my self-imposed exile, wasting words on this condition again.
(I did it many times before — who’s counting anyways?)
I’m mindful of the more pressing matters at hand. I’m acutely aware of the one-sidedness of it all.
The truth? There’s shame here — for both this topic and the manner in which I’ve articulated it.
Still, what’s a girl to do while she paints a pattern through the cracks?
Listen, I know, okay? We’re all trapped under this oppressive sky, caged by the heatwave, fighting a war of our own making.
Our self-inflicted casualties cast shadows over our bodies.
I understand how preoccupied we all are, battling to escape the blaze.
There are stories waiting to be written, songs waiting to be sung, gas prices rising, and someone must maintain their composure long enough to earn a living.
I know I’m utterly alone in this Cold War I’m fighting amidst the heatwave.
All I seek is an outstretched hand across the barricade — a sign the battle is over, a truce under the same sky.
I can even stomach the battle turning bloody — garish and evil, with low-blows and treason, fire and pain, at least we’re out of Inertia.
All I seek is an end.
The freedom that drops when you hear a song but not its meaning.
I want to look up. And forward.
I crave the moment between waking and sleep when the latter doesn’t pull me in.
I seek a safe-space inside my mind.
I seek air.
I’m not proud of stating the obvious.
And yes — today, the heatwave is unbearable.
This is a metaphor.
I couldn’t care less about the temperature or the historical meaning of geopolitical relations before the fall of the Curtain.
forever grateful for Caligula’s Horse and their lyrical beauty that inspires daily.
