Frustration

As I was sitting there in the middle of a bubble of music unpenetrable for any human touch, back to the world, a voice came trickling through. Probably the only sound my brain is still capable of registering from the outside. It automatically made my guts churn, for my throat got immune to the clenching sensation crying would induce. And then the lines came serpentiningly, and I just couldn't resist.

You're to good and I'm too bad. We would make a great pair of news, but would neutralize each other within seconds on touch. Impossibility might be the saviour here, bloody, cruel, a butchering bastard, really, but the angelic one. Saving your soul by torturing you.

You look like thunder, like lightning, like a smiling ray of autumn light, sweet and fondling. You irradiate the world.  Filtered through decaying life and leaves, you graciously shine on the cheeks of everyone a dashing smile, devoid of feigning, lies, and malice.

And the energy you are of, it's active, yet serene. Endless. Being the source, you rain motivating peace on everyone and still not lose yourself in the process. It's rather miraculous, because you seem to be only this very energy that just happens to have needed a thicker outside layer. It's as if you accidentally put on human flesh. For easier contact. So people wouldn't be blinded by your light.

Sense-making

None of this feels real. It is not real.

The only real ever experienced is the product of a never-known mind. A world hatched invisibly, without a body. Hatched and wired so deep and so subtly hidden away in the neuron lines that no man would ever see it get created, only popped up, functioning as some second-hand swing, built for children and the mad.

Somebody, somewhere has made the mistake of choosing this one. The problem is not that he has chosen these very boundaries onto us all, the problem is that he has chosen only one world.

Thankfully, a hole was left in it, the exact hole it got its essence from in the beginning. The mind, easily believing, lead astray, still could believe anything other than the chosen world, too, and call it to life just as easily. Belief, as the thought, the craftsman, the clay. It created itself in a never-ending cycle. A loop not to ever die. Eternal youth is not the wish of humans, it's the wish and life force of creation. No time, just entertainment. No entertainment, only repetition. No repetition.

And what will it take to tear down the walls and replace them with some others which are more fitting? Could we at all live without them? Without the reference points, without comparison? How would nothing really feel? How would non-existence be experienced?
The last, hardest, thickest wall there is, made of the ultimate concrete - limit - is this. What is nothing? The moment we realize is the moment we're freed. To what freedom? The ultimate one.

Topic suggested by the beloved Mr Billy Prior

When These Colours Fade to Grey/ Ad Astra

Acting on impulse is a very tasty type of danger.

Naturally, just as it rushed through as a vain thought in my mind, I obliged. I had to go and see my favourite ivory statue fall. You see it was performed. Humans were pretending to be fictional characters that were pretending to be humans. Intriguing as it sounds, I watched with an open mouth, happy not to drool. The moonskin lover of a past decade (and of mine) had been brilliant. He looked content, professional, tired, and proud. I felt the latter one quite strongly, too, even though I haven't exactly filled in for a mother figure in his life. But now that he's gone to the stars, I've found knew knowledge of him that sent his sculpture crashing down in my brain. The memory had been but a mended statuette, a mere restaurated piece of art, made more of fading and twisted recollections than actual matter. So it disintegrated, and poured down my throat, clogging every single organ that would have helped me speak to him. To the real him. He spoke, nevertheless, and I gazed at him. He smiled, and then I waved. And as the remains of the idol slowly dissolved - the statue used to be mistaken for a human because of its colours, bestowed by the goddess Iris herself -, its mother's blessing diminished, and all recollections turned silvery grey, as if it was nothing more than an old, tattered reel.

I returned to the blotch of dirt I call home to a long-missed sensation: the smell of earth. I stepped, I danced, I ran, I flew, and there it came, wrapping up the sky, tearing down the blue, drumming that solemn solo of cold - the storm has finally come. Flashes of heart-cold lightnings scarred the horizon, the clouds seemed to hay in a whirlpool, and I stood there, grinning, like it was the first time in centuries that I saw my real family again. As the wind tore at my jacket, I opened my arms to welcome the brother so neglected for long. Lights  blinked from inside the buildings, doors shut, car wheels creaked, but nothing could hold me from only sensing the shower of cold pins, and the soothing thrum occasionally interrupted by a mighty growl from aheight. I suddenly felt home and safe, not because of the place, but for the closeness. I felt as if I could touch the melting sky, I felt the angry wind embracing me in a wild, weeping way, as if a lost sibling would have returned. 

You, standing afore a storm of applause, among the stars, me, standing under the frenzied sky, girt by lightning, both of us in our place where we really belong. 

Topic unwittingly provided by the Baron.

Oh, the Chemistry

You wake up in the morning, open a pair of eyes still swimming in tranquil lakes of dreams. You perceive sheets of white, rays of sunlight, the song of those early birds. Experience being back in your body. Smelling the coffee that's not even taken out of its can. Pictures, scenes, memories of fiction and reality, senses swirling, numb still from the night, and a world whirling for you, only you, for its yours. What a line of miracles, right?

And yet, the only thing that brings your creaky muscles to align into a smile is the sleeping beauty next to you.

Among rumpled blankets, with open mouth still shining from the fluids of unconsciousness, there lies the one. The one whose sight is enough to set your senses on fire, to make your head swirl and your ego dissipate. The one whose memories are shared by you, and nobody else. The one whose touch is silk-coated firebolt. Whose kiss is the great gods' grace. Whose word is the holiest inspiration. To love, to care for, to spoil, to kill.

Then you both get up, get dressed, cover each other with kisses, just to peel the clothes right off again.

 With the coffee mug in your hand, you gaze through the steam, through the window, through the world, and stop your focus only in the past. All that hurt. All those lost battles which weren't even seen by others, weren't even worth the blood, nor the tears. Casualties of life, now even if alive, dead for you. Pain, and motionless sorrow. Thank the god of love to have saved you, and raised you, so now you have someone to live for, some base for the rebuilding of your life from its own wrecks.

You walk around the house, fishing for pieces of clothing hanging from dryers, chairs, hangers, eventually being handed them all by the precious.

Tying your tie, you get lost within the pattern, and find yourself between the lines of the fabric, happy. For you have the one that can make you happy. Who keeps you alive. Who makes you feel like in constant delirium. Who makes you feel. With whom you wish to be connected forever. Mixed. Blended. From which mingle a new human could once grow, bearing all the joy and love that you share, who would be just like you both. Who you could cherish and who could cherish you. A student, a pup, a gem, a reason for pride, a mark in history, a way of immortality. Your own flesh and blood outliving you.

You leave the house, place kisses where they should be placed, and you go where you should go.

*   *   *

Some people, some age, somewhere far away in space and time, woke up just like you. Opened the exact same amount of eyes and has seen the same object of adoration. Of course, then and there, they would very much listen to the sounds and would definitely take a good look-around, in heartless order to keep themselves from being eaten, murdered, or driven out. Maybe they would fake death for a while, just to make sure.

And that smile, should it have flashed, wouldn't be a sign of happiness, but threat. Showing the teeth that can tear out a few arteries.

The supposed recipient of that smile would bow and show a bit of rough skin of their neck, to show surrender. That fellow human would have muscles and dirt on, attire reminding your progenitor of all the disemboweled carcasses and running and hiding and rolling in the dirt and darkness. Pictures of reality. In the head, on the cave's walls, before the eyes. Memories and dreams and hopes, interwoven to a homogeneous and rough surface that would shield them from harm.

Screaming and oxytocin, sperms racing to get the chance to become the new mutation that is strong enough to survive.

On the dusty rocks, near the forest and the pit, they would munch on a piece of raw meat. Some to be able to take out the next week's nutriment, some to be able to carry out the offsprings alive. They ate fast so the sun would not blind them while hunting, also, to get over to the next cave before the night falls and death comes to wipe their future off the walls.

They put on flayed animal skin bordering on parchment.

The precious other half would not go killing with you, for bearing a child and carving the meat requires her to stay. Bloody, pointy sticks would clank together and a last glimpse of a rounding out lover would be taken. More mouths to feed, but the only way of survival in the long run.

Meat would be obtained and blood would be spilt. For survival.

*  *  *

It strikes me as something infuriatingly arrogant to live and not realize the roots of unquestioned social obligations. Of course, mating and raising a progeny is safer with a pairing. Of course, we need euphemism and pretend to discover a new level of need. Of course, we need to make it sound like an aspect above the rest. To twist it into something suitable to our whichever gilded age, so it would seem safe, superior, and morally bound. 

However, it's a very lovely rush of hormones when you touch or are touched. It's an even more enjoyable moment, when you understand or are understood completely. It's required and needed to have those points triggered, to have those chemicals rush through the body. It's hardly something subtle, or divine, merely a very bodily need, just like thirst and hunger. Of course, I'm told you can't die due to the lack of these rushes, should you resist them.
But then again, I rarely meet the men who only take a bite when death comes rattling.

Topic kindly suggested by the Singing-Thinking Sea-Foam