I do not even behold her physical image at the first glance, simply a reflection is all that is needed to take passion’s hold. The smell of her French perfume infuses the lust within and with extended finger coaxes forth the rage inside of me. Movements captured forever within a capturing mind, she becomes my prisoner before chains have even clasped her wrists. Delicacy tantalizes the mind forcing transition’s movement in this tale we are about to write. We dance past the necessities of mere mortals and I feel certain you will accept your place upon appropriate pedestal as I take you. Gently now… come quietly into the night and force not my trembling hands to meet in wanted permanent clutch. Not just yet.
Remorse is for those with compassion, instead we meet The Urge. He sits beside me at the bar and whispers words of encouragement and comradery. Another drink to try and quench the fire that still burns hot. I sweat within my skin, not from nerves but from the realization of a dream. And what do you do now that your dream has been fulfilled? Does one return as normal to the everyday robotic life of those that have never lived a fantasy? Thoughts with sugar, taken with two shots of Grey Goose, shaved lemon, stirred with ice and served by a smile that gives life to a fresh want. I ponder dreams mixed with memories as I smile and know in my heart… the reality has just begun.
Darkness comes and then there is a light. It stands before me in greeting and I rush forward with surprising urge. Mere inches away I feel a pull, there are dark chains connected to my back. They keep me from advancing towards the warmth. I suddenly feel them begin to pull me back into the darkness. There is a wrongness that is not worded, but I somehow feel knowledge gained that something is not right. One chain dangles before me and begins to shake with invitation, I grab at it with desperate hands. As I begin to yank upon my possible lifeline I look up at a familiar face, she glows with radiance and resolve as she stares down upon me. Understanding comes with violent punch upon my soul as the pieces come together of what has happened. I feel a release of pressure and watch as she drops her end of the chain, my last hope, with a dispassionate gesture. The one below allows me plenty of time to understand that her action is the last in my life, as the tale’s last word is penned with my wordless cry.
Winternight freeze my soul. Solidify it against the compassion that seeks to infest my heart. Harden my demeanor in the days to come.
I stare across a sea of frozen blades of grass. They crack and pop with the realization of their humanity. Their screams join the sounds of growth that surrounds them, pictures of life amongst the graves of the dying. Crystalized limbs reflect the light of heaven and shine a beacon into the face of God. To make him aware that though we may die with the coming sun, we were here once and we mattered. Remember us.
They call me “Mental Me.” I see that asshole mixing the medicine again with my tea. I give the nurse squirrel eyes as she hands me my pills. As long as I look crazy, I get to live tax free. I may go to prison soon if Fred touches my stuff again. I hear though that even if I went to prison… I would end up back here. It must be some kind of circle of life. Or imprisonment. There was something I intended to do. What was it.
Step inside my mind and walk with me. Put upon your ankles these smokey shackles of wishful thinking that my imagination creates. They torment the spirit willingly, even as the chains of obligation force your hand to write. You need not edit reality, when morning’s crust has been removed from either eyelid. With each falling piece comes an awakening and a desire to pen fastly fleeting dreams. An inspiration sought, an inspiration found, or perhaps an inspiration you have always had…
I see the seasons. They present themselves together like four unruly brothers, each vying for their time in the limelight. Above them banners float with strongly written reminders by Thoreau and Walden. Voltaire sits in a corner occasionally jotting down notes, looking up, shaking his head, and then writing more notes. “What is he writing?” I ponder an Indiana Jones scenario where I steal those scribbled treasures, but then reality’s post-it note reminds me I am the Short Round in this scene.
She is coming, I know she is near. I heard my mother whispering to my father about it… actually they were speaking in a regular voice. Curse them for looking down on me. But I understand, I know what is going on. All their fine clothes, smelly perfumes, and playful hugs and kisses don’t fool me. I am on to these two fakes this so called Daddy and Mommy figure I must pretend like I love or they take away my food. I mean what kind of sick world is this where a kid can’t just sit and be left alone. All the sudden the world turns upside down and I am flung around in some kind of centrifuge… much like when I appeared in this world. I would shudder, but that might remind me of the experience further. What was that? God… is that you again? No… no it is the doorbell. It is her. Escape! Help! The floor is shaking! Don’t run at me foul woman! I have been secretly watching that delightfully gruesome MMA sport that the Daddy creature seems to enjoy so much. One day I will tell him he would never last in a ring… pathetic. Put me down woman! Wait! Where are you two going! No! Don’t leave me with this ogre! NOOO!!! …damn.
All I care for is a name. A label to place over the angelic face that I see, do I dare to clothe her in flesh? Is she instead the phantom I know her to be, ever fleeting from my grasp? She has danced away from my arms for years now, wearing a different face, but sometimes the same dress. A devilish red or a flash of heavenly white, it is the same tantalizing reward that I receive. I know her, I know her, but what was her name. My mind shatters from the strain of wanting to solve this mystery, of needing to understand.
She smiles and in those moments I feel the cramping of pain inside. The affliction has been known by many names, first love, love at first sight, and just a general sense of painful love are all understood conditions. Her looks and knowing glances are a testament to her attempts at murder. What a cold smile, the type of expression a killer might have while grinning at the moment he inserts his dagger into your heart. Who would have thought that the world’s deadliest assassins would be women? And to think that they can extinguish a life with a glance and crush a hope with a simple “no.” But still the men long only for a name.