.saturday nights are for running from the silences.
silences make yourself talk to you and you ask yourself to stop talking to you but yourself is one of those annoying people who says things that could have come right out of motivational books or your therapist’s mouth, like running does not solve things.
you roll your eyes at yourself because you know that saturday nights are for running from silences so that even if yourself spoke to you the music and the chatter would fade her voice and you can tell yourself to just catch you tomorrow because this is not the time or the place. and yourself will argue. but the music is loud enough that you can just wait for her to finish speaking and ask “huh?”. and three or four “huh?”s later yourself will fall silent. that is the good thing about yourself. when she is angry she is quiet. and that will give you two hours or so so of peace even though yourself is stubborn enough to work through that anger just so she can start being a nuisance again.
and don’t go to the bathroom if you can help it because yourself is disrespectful and she will come with you to the bathroom and start talking to you and start telling you things that nobody should be thinking about on saturday nights, telling you ‘your mother has probably seen the blue ticks’ or ‘your bedroom floor has made a carpet of your clothes’ or ‘what the fuck did your ‘friend’ mean when he told you to apologise for screaming at him when he touched you’.
saturday nights are for running out of the bathroom before yourself talks to you and finding rooms full of people who probably know how to deal with their own silences and feeling so much adrenalin in your body that it makes you fear your fear and you want to run but you can’t run outside because outside is silent and so you decide to jump up high instead but heaven won’t have you, sweaty and happy…
happiness is for this earth alone, on saturday nights, at the time when god has switched off all the lights in his house and gone to his bedroom and is scrolling past headlines on his phone about ISIS and Bro Ocholla and the UN combating polio. happiness is for this earth alone, on saturday nights, at the time when god is ignoring texts from everybody because he can always tell them the next day that he had already gone to sleep.
and when god falls asleep whoever was in charge of making sure everybody emptied the room by whenever o’clock will turn the music down and you will be frustrated and you will wonder whether the world with all the fires that have not been put out was better off when god was awake and in charge.
but you know god won’t defend you because you and god have been going through a hard time since that lent when you were sixteen and you decided to give up meat for him and be vegetarian and you missed meat so much and no relationship can come back from that alive.
and yourself will start speaking to you again. and you will ask her to stop but yourself does not understand that there are times when you should just be happy, not because things are alright or because you have done everything you need to do, or because you deserve it. there are times you should just be happy. yourself thinks happiness is like math, like it is a result of things. but you keep telling her that happiness is poetry, that it needs no explanation, that sometimes happiness is reaching for the poetry books between your bed sheets that you forgot to put back on the nightstand and retrieving bodies you met last night instead.
saturday nights are for silencing yourself when yourself reminds you of the girl you met who also listened to poetry in the shower. You tried to drown her memory in the sound of the bathwater draining but yourself refused to forget that her hips resembled the bark of the tree you saw when you were seven and you convinced your father that you must get a Christmas tree and you went with him to find one and there it was, posing against the blue sky and reaching its fingers towards heaven but your father said you could not get that one and you did not understand because if christmas was about Jesus then this tree could almost hold hands with him. and when the girl danced her hips that reminded you of the tree spelt magic in Italic. and how you laugh anxiously when she pulls you and wraps herself around you because the last time both you and yourself looked at anything so sensually it was font 72 last semester when your final essay was due.
saturday nights are for shutting yourself up for as long as possible after the music is gone and kissing men and tasting alcohol in their mouths and hoping your tongue did not leave their tongue with the ability to pronounce your second name.