The Little Between The Lie
We die a greater death with every lie we tell ourselves, and we are born a smaller birth with every truth told to others. Yet there I sat, burdened by truth, and never a lie between us. Some would think it a measureable and indeed, honourable, position in which to find oneself – but it can only ever count towards ones downfall. We as people, have been bred to lie, we have been born to die, and our societies progress birthed through our own abilities to tell the truth – for what is progress but that undeniable reaching forth for the truthfulness that lay behind the lies?
I rubbed my nose. Hayfever struck. I learnt over towards her. Reaching over to her, grabbing her hand – and there, that moment, was where I told her the truth.
“Tayah,” I said. Her name. The others name. Empathic. Sincere. Green eyes of mine burning into the brown hue of hers. Melding. WAtching those small sharp edges where the lids folded one over the other.”
I think, there may be a chance, that we can make this work.” I told her. It was my truth. I felt that moment, I really did. My truth, was, however, not hers.
“I just dont have the time to make it work, I dont know if I have the time…”
And we sat, waiting as the truth took its toll.
There is a threshhold to the past, somewhere in every persons thoughts, such as the one I possessed I that day. A passageway to rememberance, and a tunnel of light filled to breaking with the turmoil of mismatched places, situations and gleaming moments – all there, and open for the taking.
It was quiet, where the sounds had been so robust and clear. It was dark, where the shine of the past hit into the mandibles of today.
“Now, I have arrived….” I began. Steadily, holding the flask to my chest, the slosh of liquid inside music to any drunkards ears.
“whyever the fuck not,” and so I lurched forward. Tripped. Fell against a rose bush, and it was there, that I lay, til morning and later. THe sun burning, and the gentle fern fronds blocking particles of matter beaming from a distance inferno of fusion and flux.
“what the fuck are you doing here?”
I cup my eyes. I gaze. I cough a littel and scratch around in my pockets. Scratch around my ass and realise that I have become at one with nature, barked up wood and all.
Its when I attempt to recall everything, that I pass that threshhold between what was, what could have been and what I damn well made it. It could have been many things, it could have been none – but with the lack of foresight of the future, all i could do was create my own past – and so here, I will tell of my past. Here, I will tell of that moment, for I am the teller and the shaper and the historian with his finger clutched around the pen. THe conqueror whom shapes his own legacy.
“I said, what the fuck are you doing here?”
I relaised that the voice was speaking to me, and I knew not where it was I was positioned. Withina garden, to be sure. In he dirt, with fern fronds encompassing me – to be sure, and it was with dreaded certainty, that I knew the voice, and as the sleep fell from my eyes, I looked up at her and groaned jstu a little – afraid to speak, or merely unabl to. I tried to get up, but faltered.
“You fucking piece of shit.”
I didnt feel her kick me in the guts through the sladgehammer within my head. Didnt feel her tears as she stormed past me, slamming the door behind her as she went back inside.
All I could think of, was that moment – and how I could have said anything, how I could have answered, and told her that it was a remarkable feat of luck that I was even there at all, that it was a remarkable thing that I had even made it that far – even if by far, I mean the garden in front of our house.
But I missed the chance.
It was only much, much later, that I realised that she hadnt kicked me at all – and that the pain was nothing but the arrows of her minds eye piercing my soul. Instead, I re-wrote it, because thats how I wanted it to be. I wanted her to kick me,h ard. I wanted her to slam the door behind her, and lock me out – and yet, victor , she merely sighed, passed me a glass of water, and helepd pull me to my feet.
I collapsed in a bed.
Sometime later, half wakon, sleep listed and dreary, I fucked her.
It was hardly excellent.
I begin only at the end, for I believe not in the notion of a universe conspiring for, or against the individuals such as us who are contained within it. Or perhaps, I move through the past, because the portions of which I speak, are easier to relay than others – the torn nature of events is such that I little believe my own truths when I tell them, even to myself.
We often wish our lives to be true circles, that everything will come around again if we but patiently wait. Of Tayah, though, this was an untruth – for she was not the one to whom I was otherwise attached. Witty, closed, talented, mischeivous and a delight, she was these things, but her shy perogatives lead me down the path to the birth of which I speak.
We met. It was as simple as that. No fucking around, no prior collusion. We knew of one another through various different groups of other individuals, but never before had our paths crossed. I had seena photograph of her once – blurred a little around the edges, but unmistakably feminine. In that one glimpse, I had thought “One day, I will have to meet her…”
Timing is nothing. It is a failure upon ourselves. To blame the errors of our lives and the duplicite paths we wander down on “bad timing” is ludicrous, and yet, when we met – it could have been anything but.
I sat back, shamelessly watched her ass shimmy. She danced well. Somewhere, a note in my mind sounded and I translated that visage into knowledge that I had passed by in my previous discussions on this woman with others: she is a dancer at nightclubs.She stopped dancing. Came over to where we were, looking at me. Half recongnising me. She sipped on a Corona. Stood by the bar. Its always a bar. Theres always a bar somewhere.
“I’m Tayah”, she said. She had a half-brim baseball cap upon her head. She was tiny. Thin. Petite as fuck in a way that only a woman of asian cast as herself could truely carry off in a way as to make the attraction for her sultry, and not depraved. She had a half smile.
That shy, closed and yet brimming of potential tendancy.
“hey, I’ve always wanted to meet you, you know?” I sid later, after we’d bumped into each other again. “I saw your picture once..but I have to say, it doesnt really do you justice.”
She laughed at my inanity. At my obligatory “You’re a guy, I’m a girl, you’ve fallen into the Pattern. Chat. Discuss. Joke. Make me look at you better. Make me look atyou again. Make me smile. Make me smile…”
We went through the flirt motions without flirting for some duration. Holding back,e ach of us. Moving away from each other, then moving back. Resuming conversations. Talking to others. Talkign to each other.
“Hey, its been really nice meeting you,” she said, and then frowned a little. “I have to go to work now though, which sucks. But hey, heres my email – mail me sometime, okay?” She passed me a scrap of paper with her number written down on it. I hadnt seen her write it. She had pre-written it. Prepared it. She came towards me, wrapped small felinesque arms around my frame. “Bye!” – and left. Simply. Casually.
My mate,s tanding nearby throughout the exchange, gave me a look. He bent over and said in my ear, “Man, shes pretty fuckable,” he leared in the way only an inebraiated man can pull off correctly”Nice ass on her – mmmmmmm – fucking hell man, thats a nice bit of azzzzznn pussy! Yeah!” and he punched me on the shoulder, laughed. He went off, in search of another beer.
I walked off in the opposite direction to take a piss. To empty myself of the nights intake, and yto berate myself, jsut a little. I needed to clear my head with the release of piss down a urinal. Get into that frame of quasi-meditative observation that often comes whilst biding your time, dick in hand, for the stream to start pissing down upon the yellow cakes in the trough.
I winced inwardly. I told myself the truth – I did not hide from it.
I agreed had with him even before he had uttered his absurdities.
I had agreed with him, about her, more than was to my liking.
She stopped. Held back after that first touch of lips. Looked downwards. Looked ashamed.
“I need to tell you something …” she said.
If there is one thing that this world does not lack, it is love. Love is everywhere. People who place on hold their lives, waiting for love, are to be chastened. There is an overabundance of love in this world. There is a flodo of love int his world. Lose one love, and you are sure to gain another. Find one love, and who is to sy that you will not gain another? Love is the flood across the desert sand in springtime – it bring the blooms and opens the land to color. But who is to say that there can not be more than one shower on the same day?
Not I. For upon me, it rained. It came in a torrential downpour, and it came as a light drizzle across my cheeks and heart. And what, do you want me to fucking love only one? Do you want me to deny that the human mind, and heart, has the overwhelming capacity to love more than one? That it is unimited in its love? That its persistant needs are not to be assimilated and utilised? Monogamy, yes. A virtue in most eyes. To mine, a fucking vice. A vice in which to lay your head, and allow the hooded figure of judgement clowly turn the screw, squeezing your life to a single point. The christian messiahs and edicts have much to answer for – for are we not truth bonded flesh? And yet still, I am beholden to it. Still, I discourage myself to love as only one comes to me. To know, and to breath into only one others life. Thats the way it is. That, is how it should be. That, is Accepted.
No. Life, does not want for that which is love. I would not lie to myself.
I saw her the next week. At the same place. We talked so more. Laughed. She stayed later than I had thought – didnt run back to her club to dance. She did not have to work, that night.
“You look cute tonight,” she remarked.
I reconclied myself with myself, made myself aware of the dangerous and shifting gravelled sands beneath my feet. I take delight int he smallest of details. The flick of a wrist. THe squint of an eye. I focus only on those things which are mundane. That her tag is slightly sticking out from her top. That ….
I was there with a different friend that night. I introduced her to him. As she walked away, I looked at him and ina voice higher than I had thought said
“See, I told you she was cute.”
Later in the evening, as everyone was leaving, she offered me a ride home.
I pulled away a little. What was it she was going to say? Did she know? She had to have known. It wasnt a secret – didnt everyone know? I fucking didnt know. I didnt even know if she knew that much about me, if word had filtered through. I had made a mistake. I had done that which one shalt not do. I was evil, and untruthful, and I had died the greather death as soon as my lips had touched upon her.
We’d arrived back. I’d shown her around my apartment. I’d turned the TV on. We were a little bouncy, her and me. Beer’d up and with that lucky-shine-go-go pure pep about us both. Her less than I, but not by much. She had, after all, needed to drive.
I looked at her. Radiant. Slightly flushed and lips moist from our communion of lust bled fluid.
“I’m seeing someone”, she said.
There are points in time, when everything shifts. When the divergences of what could be, meld with what is, and what was take a backstep and collide with “the moment”. Where the future can be seen if but at a glance, and where all the lies, deceit, honesty and integrity can be scattered away with each and every breath.
The words, were that moment. The words, were not what I had thought to hear. I had not thought upon that – and to the irony of all, I was speechless. She shifted nervously, and I could see her lithe figure in the dim light of a single lamp, her skin bronzed way past that which her her philipino ancestry presented by its photonic blend.
“I’m sorry… I just needed you to know,” with th elook of ‘I want to do this, but its not fair on you’ and by fuck, I knew that look. I had had it prepared. I was to have been the assassin, smiling and laughing.
I looked into those eyes, and of a sudden saw the birth of what was to come searching me, studying me, reviling me and reaching out with hope, desire and the fleeting risk of a chance denial.
I cupped her face in my hands, leant in closer and breathed her breath as it left her small mouth in short, stromfronts.
“I’m seeing someone too,” I said.
We didnt fuck.
We learnt. We acted. We played. We held ourselves back from that threshold. Her small hands felt the grain of my body, and I felt the subtlty and compression of hers. Clothes on, limbs straddled, digtis maurading. Lips interlocked and tongues darting at frantic pace through opened maws. Nips on necks. The cupping below. The rubbing of two creatures who took delight in the barrier they had set themselves in their own pleasure – unsure of unknown territory and yet certain, that it was wrong. And yet certain, that it was right.
Held back. Bound by the duality of the moment.
The next morning I received an email. Waiting for me as I arrived at work, sleepy. Tired. Awestruck with the subject – “One Word” is all it said.
wow. she wrote.
ok make it two words. she wrote.
wow & intense. she wrote.
ok make it three. she wrote.
wow & intense & wet. she wrote.
<3 D.xx. She wrote….
….and in the rush of blood that surged through my veins, I read the final line:
ps. you are too adorable. I heard you say to your friend at the bar “see, I told
you she was cute”
There is a moment, where everything can be seen. Where everything you do, can be laid out flat and displayed to you in such an intimate and knowing way, that you can then take your life, fold it up, and store it with you in any small compartment of your mind that comes along – and there, you can retain it forever. Hold onto it, forever. Always know it. Always feel it. Always live it, again, again, again…
I folded my thoughts.
There is another to mention. There is always another. There is always Something Else.
Something Else was my usual day. Something Else was my usual life. Content. Happy, but not ecstatic. Run-of-the-mill-complacent-bullshit. We enjoyed each others companies, Something Else and I. We laughed together. We shopped together. We fucked – sometimes good, sometimes bad – but never enough. We made semi-plans for the future together and we lived a relationship and life together, that was placid. Meek. Content with the remanants of passion lost in the dwindling sunset of the “honeymoon” of lust and newness. We held hands and called each other every night. We fought. We loved.
She cheated on me. More than once. I, in my humbleness, ignored every warning. Ignored every single thing that screamed “wrong, wrong and she always came back. To me. Always pretending that it wasnt there. Always pretending that the messages on her phone were something other entirely. Always pretending that her outings with the girls, were exactly that – and not outing to go be crammed full of thick fucking cock from which some bastards penile scumslim jetisoned. I wasnt stupid. I am not stupid. Just the opposite, in fact – but I am at one with my own deniability.
She had cheated on me. More than once. She really was, Something Else entirely.
She had died the greater death more times than ever I had, more times than ever I thought accomplishable. And yet, I was her messiah. I was her redeemer. I was her resurrection, for all that she did, I wandered in bliss and forgave, and took back, and relinquished any of my own blame in doing so – and how easy it should have been, at that moment, to distance myself. How easy, it should have been to have taken the logical path. How easy it would have been, to fuck off all of my denial and attribute it to self-preservation, self-satisfaction – knowing,t hat if I did so choose, I could join her in the whole deception of our time together.
I was her redeemer. I was her resurrection. I was her significance and her other.
She was my charade, and yet I loved this Something Else – and there was no disentanglement possible.
Every morning I would get up. I’d the usual morning thing. I would get ready for work. I catch the train. The train, then takes me into the city – I am usually crammed in with a bunch of strangers, each smelling desperately like they want to be crawling back into bed. That morning smell, fresh, clean, but with a hint of sweat and nervousness.
That morning, the train was full of school kids, waiting to go to their prison. I embarked with them, and go a small distance towards my fucking mundane and uneventful job.
On the way, my train passed under a small foot bridge that crosses the railway line. As I have passed under there, I was unable to help smiling and being full – the full smile hat I had given to her the previous evening, for the first time in a very long time, a full double rainbow stretched across the afternoon sky – happy and full of light.
That smile, beneath that bridge, in a train moving towards my work, is how I knew that my day had really started.
There was no guilt at discovering my heart had warmed to another, for I was now playing my own part to match hers.
“Sometimes I have to laugh at my own underpants because some of them are so small its nonexistent,” Tayah remarked.
I held them with the tip of my finger, uplifted in front of her. I gazed at them. Her body laying before me. The rut complete. That first fully fledged encounter where we’d taken from each toher exactly what it w3as we wanted. Given each other, exactly what we needed. I flicked the string-set piece of flossed underwear towards her, and jumped in its wake. So small, so tiny. Completely throw-around-about and sleek, darkened skin. A butt of solid touch. Nipples of refined moments, where the cold touched on tiny, half-fledged breast – erect and knowing.
She had, at first resisted. Messages had flown between – she couldnt make it. The night after. Suddenly, the yearn was there – blowing its shispers into both our bodies. The yearn for each others presence.
So she resisted. “I shouldnt come” came the first message. “I dont know” came the third. “see you in half an hour” came the fourth.
We were there, that night – embraced and true. Positions taken and revelled. Moisture exchanged. Joined by flesh and rubber and vagina and cock and the sliding, tasteful lubricant between her heavenly thighs. After we had satiated our thirst for each other, had we laughed. We judged not each other, for each our actions were, from the outside point of view, irredeemable and grossly true.
We were, for all intents and purposes, each others lie, and each others only truth.
I’m slowly waking up. I’m slowly coming to consciousness and understanding where it is I am. My arm is across Something Elses body, and it feels right. It feels content. Warm and in many ways nutritionous to my half waking dreams – and yet, I can not help but dream. I can not help think.
I can not help but know, that it is not where I should be – but that I am still yet happy to have the comfort that Something Else provides.
I am wiping my eyes, and staring at the ceiling. Something Else stirs next to me, rolls over onto her side. Oblivious. My head shreiks at me, and yes, – I can feel a tear sliding down my cheek.
I run my hands through my hair, and pluck out something hard – something once living. THe browned splinter of leaf is held on the tip of my finger, a remanent of the garden and a sign of the end of my destination, and inside, deep beneath the cover of happiness and fear I can feel nothing but sorrow and relief.
After everything, I had made it to the garden. I had made it to her house.
Past the point of betrayal, past the point of rejection – I had pointed my life in Something Elses direction, and landed there – as surely a dud warhead had landed on many a foreign battlefield.
That first time, was the last time we lay together on an actual bed. THe logistics of such an endeavour, shammed meetings, the waiting. The relocation of selfs and the trecking to find peace and quiet between us, conspired to change the medium in which we consumated our relationship.
We fucked in the back seat of a car.
I met her after work one night. She was sweated out. She had danced to the cheese of all cheese, gators stretched over her forelegs and a garment of such tight…and we met. I met her. I stood, and watched her dance in her work – I was there, an hour or more, before she finished.
She walked up to me afterwards. Shy, quiet. She grinned.
“I’ve never put anyone on the door before, in all the time I’ve worked here, you know?”
“Really?” and I drank softly. Slowly. Savouring her sight.
It was raining outside. Pouring in parts, drizzling in others. We scrambled back to the car and sat there, talked for a little while. She told me of her life, I told er of mine. We spoke of ntohing, and we spoke of everything. After the first, my fear was with me – and my heart pumped prure yellow before I leaned over – kissed her. Ignited. Felt her response.
“where shall we go?” I asked her.
We drove. I no direction. Away from where we had parked.
“I know a place…” she said, and through the rain,w e drove. I put my hand, down on her leg, she looked down. Smiled. Put her hand upon mine. Shifted gears. Gave quick glances towards me. Grinned. PArked.
In the dark of night, we found a place. A place we would also return to – but on that night,t he rain held sway and the river was barely visable behind us.
She wasnt talking, and I stroked her chin.
“I feel guilty” she said.
“I know…I do as well.”
“I dont know what to do..I have so much going on, so much…but…”
I dont know waht to do either. But I want to keep seeing you. I want to be with you. Whenever, however, we can. I dont care, it doesnt matter – we’ll find time. You want this, dont you?” I asked. Softly. Cautiously. CArefully
“I cant help this…I dont want to…” she looked at me with the ardour of a fallen saint. “Yes, I do want this.”
It was all in the words. The look. The touch. Everything within and ther we were, then, ont he back of the seat. My hands, removing what I could. Her hands, upon me. Me, sitting on the edge, her legs straddled across me, the windows fogged and her gasps of pleasure a choir in my ears.
“I missed you…” I whispered. BEtween gasps.
She continued, Harder. Tight. Throwing herself,a nd somewhere, she shuddered Somewhere, she buried herself deep within and as she leant down, chest in my face, lips near mine she whispered.
“God I missed you too…I missed you too.”
Several times after, we returned there. Several times after, I held her, before reaching down to my cock. Several times, I pulled the latex sheeth off, twirled it around.
Several times, I wound down the window and with a casual throw, flung my cum splattered condom out onto the ground of the darkened carpark.
Several times, we left a part of both of us both there – wet, warm, and satiated.
I wish it had of just been about the fucking. I wish it had of just beena bout the physical. She got into my mind, got into those parts of me that hadnt felt such spontaneous action for some time.
She was like this the old cliched story, that I heard somewhere and yet can not remember where: Fill a cup full of large rocks. Is it full? Yes. However, now take pebbles, and drop them into the bucket. Theres room, correct? Yes. Now is it full? Yes. Take sand, and pour it into the cup. Shake it and watch it fill the gaps between the pebbles. Now is it full? Okay, now it is full, nothing else can fit in there…take a glass of water. Empty it into the cup. Now is it full?
Ad infinitum, down to the most basic of levels. My life was full. She was the water. Her presence, her emails, her forbidden text messages in the late-night. Her strands of heair left on my clothing after our rendevous’, my brushing them away, hiding them – never allowing them to stray to other parts of my abode or life.
At first she was a trickle, and then she was a tsunami – flooding her way inwards, surrounding me and claiming all those empty spaces between my life. I can say this, for I have seen it all. I can know this, because I have felt it. I can say, that it was not jsut the sex. Not just the release. Not jsut the illicit desire of the entire affair – we spoke. We talked. We had the commonality of art.
We had the commonality, of creation.
We are our societies own midwife. We have been bred to lie. We have been bred to associate progress with infallible truths.
This is jsut as well, and the momentum of my recollection is slowing. Beyond the emotion, beyond the regression,b eyond the pain and the unwilling desire to hold onto the past there is but one simple fact: we failed.
It unravelled quicker than I had believed was possible.
Times between our meetings grew longer. THe chastening of our consumation became more abrupt. We were to meet upon a Friday night, a message and another rendevous. No message came. I waited. I waited for what seemed an immesurable amount of time. It did not come. THe tohughts in me flowed thick – that this, was perhaps, the lie between us. The lie within the lie.
THe rumours came. I heard, voices and innuendo. The unravelling of trist. I heard, not from lips, but from actions, that things were not to be as they had seemed. She was busy. She was working. She was the antithesis of my thoughts, and yet, I yearned. I waited.
“I’m sorry, I cannot apologise. I should have called. I should have told you. I did want to see you. I did, but…”
Words spoken in truth? Words spoken in denial? Words spoken in the dead of still-time, where the anunciation is merely the question – why. Yes. No.
Three weeks. Of waiting. Of not knowing. Of not understanding. And many nights, I would turn up at the door of Something Else, taking solace in -her- arms. Thinking of another. Thinking on those moments, translating the fuckign scenes upon the back seat of a rain spattered car to the fantasies that all think upon whence fucking another. Its always there, those unbridden thoughts – those scenes. That movement. The casual loss of appetite and the hunger for more than what is in ones arms – it is the stuff of ecstacy., it is the stuff of passion – and for each orgasm, for each thrust, I felt the flesh between me, the shape beneath me, transmutaed into another.
Afterwards, I sat by the window, looking out upon the garden. WAtching the ferns move in the evening windlets. Smoking a cigarette and with a drab of whiskey, chilled, icebound, in my hand. I would galnce back at Something Else, and smile. I would turn back towards the outside, and break.
Somewhere, in between, I knew that the broken dogma I had espoused so deeply was breaking free, and that my own religion of truth was awakening.
THe music was too loud. I took her hand. Walked her outside. It was dingy, that side alley -the only place in which to smoke. I pulled one out, and attempted banter.
“So, how have you been?” smiling. Righteous. normal, quirking. She smiled. Looked at me.
“What?” she replied.
I leant in. “How have you been? Hows work?”
“Oh, ” she replied. “Good, its been good.”
She stood back. Nto close. People were around. There was no social intimacy – there never had been. We had profiled ourselves. Friend upon friend in public. Fuck upon flame in private.
“You want to go somewhere else?”
“Yeah…” shr replied.
We left, the music fading off into its own aural trail beyond us, and ther, was the car. Parked by the church. She opened it, opened the door for me – we sat, side by side. There was no rain, the night was clear, and outside, people passed by – some going to, some coming from – some going to come and some having never done so.
I touched her hand. I rubbed my nose a little. Specks of hayfeverish pollutant pollen shit rubbed up inside my nose.
“Tayah,” I said. Her name. Empathic. Sincere. Green eyes of mine pleading with hers. Melting. Waiting as those small sharp edges of denial folded one, over the other.
“I think, there may be a chance, that we can make this work.” I told her. It was my lie. I felt nothing, int hat moment. My lie, however, was hers.
“I just dont have the time to make it work, I dont know if I have the time…”
“I want to keep seeing you…”
“I cant do it anymore,” and she pleaded. She offended. She tried – I could see that, and yet, and yet -
THe lie began to take its toll. My lie, was not our lie anymore. THe true lie, remained in her. She was a lie, within a lie – one for herself, one for me, and one for the new person she was seeing. The one whom was not me. I saw it, right at that moment – the culmination of the entire ordeal. THe whole gblemish of spirit and comprehension – for there was time. There always had been. There were ways, and means, and beginnngs and paths to which we could take, and yet – and yet -
I died the greater death at that moment, and was born a smaller birth – and yet, and yet -
“We can still see each other, if we can….I dont…I… I’m sure we’ll see each other out and about, you know?”
I turned on her. I looked at her with pity. I was broken in sweat and to think! To think! What I had sacrificed! what I had subjected! What I had and could have given!
“I dhope I dont fucking see you,” I spat. “I fucking hope I dont see you, because I dont want to fuckign see you. I fuckign want you, and I dont want to fuckign see your fucking face.”
I grabbed the door handle, I shoved the door aside, breathless. I turned on her, and the birth pains and labour pains and the water of her tsunami broke and Iw as travelling down, down intot he breath of new life of new beginnings of the greater of the lesser of the birth into death and the words the words came and ….
“I think I fucking fell in love with you.”
Outside, I stumbled. I fled.
“Hey!” I heard. “where you going?” It was someone I knew. Smiling. REady for the night.
“Oh, I…ah.. I…”
“Man, that must be some good shit you’re on. Have a good one!”
I stumbled. I left.
I found a bottle. I drank.
I end, only at the beginning, for it is seemly. I lurched. I tripped. I made my way towards the only destination I knew could abate my birth pains. I fell against a rose bush, its thorns brushing into my hands. Into my face. Into my flesh and dust – and it was there, that I lay, til morning and later. THe sun burning, and the fern fronds biting into my life with their diseased harmony and their pitiful gentle nature.
Something Else, found me there. Something Else, gathered me up, took me in, took my body aside and devoted its attentions to me. i have remade my own past. I have washed up on the shore with the rest of the flotsam, and, unliek the other bodies hat lay there, I have been claimed. I have been resussitated. The water of the future has been drawn from my lungs and spat out into the sun drenched air. I had taken my folded thoughts, and created my own raft on which to float upon the past of my creation, and it was there, I came to awareness. It was there, that I crossed the threshold of what might have been to what could have been, and I devolved – all the while absolving myself of my own past.
I’d collapsed in a bed. My arms bound against her. Spooned and content, blissed and aware of the sheer life that I’d held within my arms.
Sometime later, half waken, sleep listed and entranced, I’d fucked her.
It was excellent.