after island

There is an entire country named After, yet almost no one knows how to live there. Ironic, considering the generous amount of residents. People don’t come here by accident. It only takes a small part of you to desire it; rejection is a failed unanimous decision. No one has ever returned.

Assimilation isn’t complicated, but maintenance requires commitment. Learning how to interrupt emergencies without learning how to accompany recoveries. Operating on the assumption that surviving automatically creates hope.

The language spoken here is peculiar, but fluency develops faster than you’d expect. There aren’t too many words in use because few are needed. We speak with a melody of omissions, harmonizing with subject changes and awkward silence.

The geography of After is strange— days stretch into deserts, nights collapse into sinkholes. Uncharted simply out of a lack of desire. I wonder how many people get lost simply because help arrived too briefly. Even the speed of light outruns what needs witnessing. Some things travel too quickly to illuminate what they pass through

Time moves differently here. Like molasses, a little goes a long way. We celebrate holidays such as One Year, Six Months, Three Tuesdays and Tomorrow— important only to those who have celebrated them before. No need for gifts because you’re living it. All immigrants are expected to express ongoing gratitude and remorse for their citizenship.

In After, information is the same as support. They shower it upon your welcome, so be sure to read the fine print. It will crack open your understanding of existence and abandon you right after. Survival is the complete task, the sole requirement for citizenship and the answer to all succeeding questions. 

When you are no longer an immediate danger, they board you to After with wet ink. Immediate— what an interesting word. It measures minutes, maybe hours, yet says nothing about the weeks to follow. Nothing of the radio silence waiting for you at the jet bridge where everyone equates your safety with the plane’s. 

I wish the wanting were contagious. 

The plan was always to return. Back to Before. But after making this my home, I wonder if Before is even safe for me. I’ve abandoned the customs and misplaced my language with the illusion that every departure guarantees an arrival. 

Which is why it’s impolite to investigate citizenship. Instead, ask who stayed with them. Ask who learned the language with them. And notice how cruel it would be to request an encore.