To
you, my love, I reveal
my
true self, but every time I am
in
your arms, the other selves revolt,
rejecting
that they are no more
than
lies when you are not
here.
Jealousy is a curse, but so
is
curiosity—sometimes more.
What
is the colour of a chameleon?
Green,
perhaps, like the colour
of
the leaves it so easily mimics.
Or
is it grey, the dull colour of
the
rock on which it rests?
Has
it ever failed to make itself
invisible
to the world, to predators?
A
natural error presenting itself as
a
wrong shade of yellow or brown,
exposing
the truth is just nature
being
itself, but “What is that?” I ask,
“What
is Truth?”
But
the little chameleon slithers
away
and hides once more, constantly
betraying,
unknowingly betrayed by
the
sole guarantor of its survival.
Adaption, but what for? Adapting,
but,
“To what?” I wonder.
Claiming
that external forces give
it
no other choice but to adapt even if
it
is the very force it fears. We are the
chameleon
desperate to know
its
true colours. We are the cold,
brick
wall from which it stares at me
and
my intentions.
We
divide the world, and give in to
those
divisions, we are the trees that
burn
ourselves, the water that takes pride
in
its own transparency (but, shit, everyone
sees
right through us!), the rocks
that
sit and do nothing while everything
we
know is sick of being known by us,
sick
of never being understood.
And
yet, my love, look at how
loudly
we proclaim to be the chameleon
that only adapts! Is this my true self—
the
one that has just been kicked
out
by the angry and deceived?
Please,
please don’t look at me like that.
You
and I are the same lonely chameleon
that
is now among the ruins, trying to
outlive
fate. Forget about the walls,
the
leaves, the rocks… Forget about
the
colours!
We
are only adapting.