Stretched across the seascape, a faint smell of mystery.
I was home during an afternoon of blinding rain, the rooms cluttered with sprinkles of croutons, anthologies of despondence wed novels, and the synthetic mist of French perfume. I had saturated my Pepsi with apricot juice. Everything seemed to be under the spell of a forgiving age. The voices of multiple women singing falsettos beyond the television’s screen were almost intoxicating to hear on that dreamy trip to a content Saturday afternoon. The consequence of a late morning had led me to wake up to a burst of sunshine that was disconnected in totality, it was cut by the grid films, yet it softened the noise of a grungy past. I sat looking away from the window, to keep my sight away from the confusingly quick rain.
O arrive On the edge of tomorrow and fly Onward the dawning tears.
“How many seasons do I have to get through these days” asked the old man who embodied my imagination, maybe it was a recurrence from something in a time far forgotten. My memory had encouraged movement in all optimistic and pessimistic ways, all objective and subjective manners. The shores and coasts all bound in the garland of my cartoon recalls made me even gladder. The lush light, the flushed faces, all that was a celebration of symptomatic heartbeats felt closer than the bed on which I lay laughing. I was laughing at a trick joke, an easy one to laugh at, made at the expense of acquaintances. There’s only so many fixes, only so much better and shades of blue to make me rest and head a colored psyche.
I can’t breakthrough this world, bound in a daisy-chain and I’ll stay happily.
But it’s in the evening that something’s to happen, to me. All the sheer shrillness has subsided, minimized by the tarnished glasses unto its havocked images. Notwithstanding the magnified revulsion that uncertainty holds, I can just dream all that needs to be cycled through in times to come. I don’t have a doubt in my mind, this first thought is mine from words and for all their truth. I’m moved, for that is what I breathe to gaze upon, in many ways, and with little prospect of benefits that might follow. So I will maneuver my thoughts to speech, open my mouth and expect to hear them out loud. The past asks for a long farewell, and I shall always try to be eager in fulfilling its wishes. As to say what might have been, I have no idea, except that it must have been during another hour on another day when I instead bought myself to not accomplish that particular teaching. But I do recognize that all that remains to me is a vision of a burning eye glaring out of its socket under a testing purpose to see whether I push it, or it pulls me-whether I have the courage to debate or am just a blow without brains.