let us not talk about love (microfiction)

20.08.2025

‘Let us not talk about love,’ I said. ‘It is too dangerous.’

‘To love someone is dangerous. It is a danger to give someone your heart. But to talk about love? Why is that dangerous?’ asked Alfonso.

I had just come back from a comedy club. I was the only one that had sat there by himself. And I was the only one that could not laugh at much. A rare laugh. That is what this life gives you.

I looked at Alfonso who was always ready to question, argue, inspire. ‘We live in a world where it is wrong to say you love someone. Because we live in a world full of hate. We live in a world where you can spout hate and become a President or become a serious contender to become a Prime Minister, like with those evil, ignorant privileged motherfuckers Trump and Farage. When that hate is called ‘free speech’ – what a fucking joke’.

‘Well then, don’t talk about love. Your exploration of topics has become too repetitive. All you talk about is how the world is against you. It might be true. But do you really think that anyone cares? After all, the world is what reads. They will not judge themselves and find themselves wanting.’

‘My subject is that I do not accept this world’s valuation of me. I object to their processes of valuation and devaluation.’

‘Tell us a story instead. Stories are safe. Because no one can pin you down to anything in a story.’

‘There once was a flower. He wanted to grow. To shine. So badly. But they put this flower inside a box with no light. The flower had a fierce desire to live. He battered his being against the sides of the box. He screamed with a silent fury. Inside, there were no other flowers. There was only him. And the desire to live and to grow. He had to learn to grow by himself with no help from anyone, no resources, nothing. And there he is in the box, growing and growing, hidden away from the world. The tumult in the box cannot go outside into the open.’

‘It would be very simple to say that the flower is you’, remarked Alfonso. ‘But sometimes the elegant solution is the one that is the best.’

‘Assume, presume, resume,’ I intoned. ‘The writer that says what he thinks is crucified. The one that remains silent – he is worshipped.’