And before you can stop it, its happening, and you watch everything unravel and there's nothing to stop it.
The thing is, you've seen it before, seen the unravelling and you promised you would never let it happen again. But you did.
Now you're kneeling, hands covered in th(more)e same blood you promised would never be spilled. Bright with the life it never got to live whilst it closes up your throat and threatens to choke you with its rust.
It's the seventeenth night in a row now that I have had the same dream. I hate it. I hate the millisecond after I wake up and before I remember that it was the dream again, before I have to wake up and face reality.
(more) It's been over a week since I saw another human being. My fuel and water tanks are still more than half full (not half empty) so I am not in any rush to find a hawker. I hate those slimey bastards. Always trying to cheat you and snoop into your business. You can see a mix of delight and annoyance when they see that my MrK57 has been upgraded with the 100 liters.
The dust trails in the distance have faded now and I decided to get some more kiloms under my belt before the 1st sunset.
The steady thrum of the engine becomes the only sound in my life. The buggy creaks and sloshes every now and again as the hard desert dips and lifts, breaking the apparent uniformity of the flatland.
Why do I keep having the dream? I thought I was over you, done with all the pain and loss. Yet you are here, with me every night.
I thought you face would have become less distinct by now. I never had a great memory. But you are burned into my retina and I see you behind my lids, smiling at me, urging me forward.
I wish I knew what you were asking of me. I wish I could understand why you need me to go back to the Paganfields.
I always hated to see you cry, your silent tears were more powerful than any weapon made by man.
I see the towers in the distance. I'll be there in 2 days.(less)
"I don't know what counts as my first kiss, or even my first love," Nadya told me between sips of her drink. "Maybe that sounds sad, but I think it's rather common."
"Certainly. It's human nature to reduce our pasts into a more streamlined narrative."
"It does(more) make for better stories. The Heartbreaker and the Heartbroken. The Traitor and the Betrayed. The First Love. The One That Got Away. Blah blah blah. It's always more complicated than that."
She stood up, pointing at her empty glass to hint she was going to refill it, but remaining in place.
"We have this urge to repackage our lives like they're movies,"
she continued, gesticulating theatrically. "Predictable ones, at that."
Her impassioned tone sparked a wave of stolen glances from nearby patrons, whose eyes lingered on her undulating silhouette. As she shimmied up to a nearby table to ask for a lighter, I could see she was fully aware she moved like a movie star.
Xyto was 45 now, colouring in the truck only just outside the lines. Everything was the right colour except the yellow face of the man inside it. He had faint memories of designing a new truck engine when he was 7 -which is, the psychologists believe, why trucks are(more) his favourite toys- but to Xyto it was a memory of playing with friends, that’s all he could understand it as. His rough hand, grey hairs dripping down the side, clasped the crayon with a reasonable amount of certainty. On floor beside him were broken crayons, the result of misjudgements.
Xyto aged physically as any normal person did: his body peaked around his 30s and started its descent into decay. His mind however, after the first two years of confusion, was fully matured at the onset, and then gradually declined into immaturity. Scientists marvelled at the anomaly of his DNA, Buddhists loved him for his increase innocence, the general public felt uncomfortable in his presence. In his youth he was a prodigy, solving the engineering problems his father had set out. In his 30’s he fell into a drug problem, which his aged body could not handle as well as his teenage mind-set. Then, eventually, he replaced drugs with drawing. It was kind of beautiful.
You could tell how close he was to death by the size of his ego; he became less and less set in his ways as he aged. Everyone knew when he was completely present, reacting to everything with a fresh mind, that he was close to the end. With death came innocence.
In the lane as light flickers blindly the savior emerges, a ghastly thing, a yellow call in that pitch black night. Surreptitious, enigmatic, there is no answer but the man at the door. He's yelling a dream, he's coaxing a condor.
(more) No, today is not the morning when existence eclipses into your mind. Today is the day that lips melt into two and your bodies seep into the ground and every word on your breath is anointed with death.
Scream and call. Beckon like you're begging for life. There's a messy smile and a tipsy kiss and your whole mind is blurred into nothingness. The words seek you and the days turn tom fragile to health. Strong is just another concept. Love is just another lie.
So I weep in my room, unsure how a fuck-up like me could ever live in this world. Then other time I feel like sand: divine, personified, a human abroad. My heart locks into something deep and no one tells me I'm beautiful anymore.
I get lockjaw from sucking your cock and he's talking to me in the dark and no body is lying anymore so let's find a stranger to drown. There is no one else and nothing else, just a pressure in your spine and that thing zipping into you like it's cancer.
Fuck. Fuck me. Fuck everyone. I'm wet and you're hard so let's slit our throats together, watch as the blood seeps into a pretty poem. Thank you baby, thank you for fucking this pussy so good. Too vulgar? Who cares. We'll all be dead by tomorrow anyway.
So today I live in that weary lie. Today I press my bones into a strange man and call into the black and every little bow is tying up my messy heart. (less)
What a burden, the cross! What a fate, to be drowned by the tears and woes of the masses! What a sentence, a restriction, priest's collar chafing like chains on the soul. How quaint, how queer, to see man toil solely for the sake of another!
O, ye pur(more)e souls that fly straight to heaven, pause not at the fate of those without your strength. (Not all of us can ignore the biological imperative. Not all of us can set aside our own welfare.)
Humanity, corrupt, (im)perfect humanity. Created in a god's image, an image of bleeding sores and sin-stains, of pustules and purity, of male ego and female opression. Blessed inequality, that which follows us even into death, balance our scales in the next life. Let the murderer be reborn pious, the tycoon clean, the child grow again until she is ancient and jaded.(less)