One

"the"

To instigate is to perpetuate a conflict. To encourage the classic breakdown in communication. To ensure that there is no peace. To instigate is to eradicate the concept of selfmotivation.

A sparrow alighted upon our shoulder- Jóhann Jóhannsson, Air Lyndhurst String Orchestra, Anthony Weeden

Nahum

To live in a constant state of contentment one must find an exuberant and potent love of the miniscule. Miniscule milestones. That first breath fresh air, that first bite into a warm and jammy pastry, maybe custard filled on a lucky day.  First intimate moments with the opposite sex. Though, first times ever being unfaithful are more memorable than normal first times. First times making love in your head, to your own friend are more repetitive than first times in real life. First times making love to yourself feel good, though they aren't repetitive or memorable at all. But lets get back to being unfaithful. First times being unfaithful are like deviating from the origin. Moving in the negative direction from the zero. The normal. The medium.

The first time Brionny ever cheated on Jenny was when Nahum came to the Parma inn. She did it with just a simple gesture; holding his hand.

It wasn't the amiable type of had holding. It was the type of handholding of lovers. Separated then reunited again. The type of handholding that restored the blood flow to one's palm. Combated the blue and restored it tot the vivacious blush pink of warmth. The kind of handholding that made her ponder what exactly it is to love.

To love is to hope. To love is to hold on. To love is to feel for what is of use when in darkness. To appreciate all that is seen in the light.  To love is to see all for what it truly is. To ignite what is yet to be lit aflame. To love is to see in the dark and give your light to those that indulge in the darkness of sin and lust and malice. To try and salvage the souls swallowed by the djinn, spirits of the past that gave individuals the closure of self discovery. The closure of knowing that even the unliving parts of yourself where of some sort of value to mankind. Or your own individual kind. 

The djinn were beacons of nostalgia. Permanent hello's of tomorrow. Like grudges, held in love starved hearts drenched in a treacle of lemon and lime, very little sugar at that. The djinn were symbolic of the stage between life and death. The stage at which one is conceived and created in their mothers womb. Cell by cell, limb by limb. The stage at which we are mere people existing as we truly are. While restoring the vivacity into her limbs, he pondered his own death. An impromptu death that would leave him no time to say goodbye. He though his caesura to himself. His epilogue in his one man play. Audienceless. Theatreless. 

I may die soon. Today or tommorrow. All I do is cherish this living memoir known as my life. All I do is deviate from the fact that the greatness I was destined for may be take away from me before my life even begins. Though Im content with who I am, I may be no more tommorrow. And content is rarely in my vocabulary. You may only live once but it is my goal to live again. Though I may be shot down, drowned in the ashes, I am adamant that indeed I will become a somebody. Not just a lover of observance. A person that holds on to firsts that never really became forever. I fantasize about my death more often than a normal person should. More than I ever celebrate my life. But I am certain that my love for all will fuel me for as long as I live. 

Loving Nahum was like loving a catalogue of books. He was a walking library. A sophisticate of the paper worlds. He spoke happily and with awe, about writers like Oscar Wilde and Constance Loyd, Cyril Holland. The neurodivergent that spent the last of their days sharing their imaginary worlds with the tangible.  Loving Nahum was like loving the uncertain. The maybe. The not-so-sure. It was loving a newborn, meek and eager about the miniscule things about the world. It was like loving the constant state of contentment that Brionny herself chased.