We are waiting. We are waiting for that lightning to strike.
For all the years that have gone by and the few more yet to come. We are waiting. We are waiting for lightning to strike. The depth of the night is slowly fading. The morning light is brightening the world. The room feels like and endless bottom of the well. I have forgotten again there is purpose and that there is meaning. I’m losing track of time. There is you though. Sitting in that corner chair, with your side swept hair. Or are you yet another figment of my imagination.
I have dreamt you and contemplated you so many times tonight, in all your flawed imperfection that reality seems a distant shore, far out of my reach. I know in time the alarm will go off. It will jar my half asleep reverie, to be so acutely aware of the fact that it hurts even to think of it even in this haze.
The town is a dreary mess of grey snow that at first was so sparkly it brightened up even the nighttime world. Do you remember? Probably not. I asked for a drink, just because. For what is life without creating memories? Is that not all that we are made of? The past and all our actions in the present and all that we aspire to be. In this short span of time. That is your life and that is my life. Your dreams and my dreams, so very different, so very alike.
And is it not always like this for me? Holding infinity in the palm of my hand; and eternity in an hour. For every breath that I take is now easy and every ache in my bones is eased simply by the touch of your hand. Would it be that I would let you go? Of course I would. I thought I had paid my dues. Every scar, every heartbreak and every lost moment, every lost possession that brings me closer. Every time I look back and I am left bereft with the knowledge of how temporary everything is. You with your bright eyes, I said my brother’s eyes, and devious smile. Sentimentality has never been my fondest trait and yet here I sit, wishing again for the nights to turn sparkly and bright. First snow, I said. I have never known this much cold and I have never felt this warm. But sometimes, only I know, I lie.
I wish for a muse. And I am granted my wish. Would that I had wished for something else? Some kind of kindness that is everlasting. Some kind of permanence to my fleeting existence. To not be so aware. To live in the moment. But that is what “we” writers are, are we not? Professional observers. A rather markedly cerebral view point. And is that all my adventures are. Misadventures. Punishing yourself just to be able to create something to share with the world. This little world that no one cares exists, just to know that you have created something. The public persona, the private persona and the recklessness that sets in to break the rules. To just be the professional observer. To not care about the whispers, the stolen glances amongst peers. The writer is reckless. The writer is abandon. The writer does not care for the risk to reputation. What is reputation anyway? The damned social constructs that get thrown in the face of people who can take the risk to their pride and their ego. We have to sit and wait patiently then… For you to see the madness has subsided. For we do belong in the same world as you.
You are no longer the muse and you will turn to dust and ashes, just like the rest of the world. With all your charm and all your flaws, your self-help books, stickers on kitchen cabinets and drawers, yoga mat and white boards all over the place noting down every important detail of your day and the changing quotes. Ah forgive me, for I do not mean to belittle this world that you have created, it is just as much valid as mine, perhaps even more so, for you follow some modicum of propriety. And I choose to eschew them.
I wish I had more. I wish I had more than the nights that I stole. But like the impermanence of everything in my life, I must resign myself to the facts. I wonder. I wonder if you ever wrote about someone, or if someone ever wrote about you. I wonder what broke your heart. I wonder what you were like as a child. You will share this and that… and more with someone else. Just another one who might mean something to you… eventually. Maybe. I wonder what you wait around for. The things that I wonder about.
Am I the cruel one? Do I only take? “Succubus”. Who is it that you were you talking about? I wonder. I wonder if anyone else ever made mental notes of the things that you have spoken. Even if it is to write about you later. Even if I seem passive. Unaware to you.
Teal.
Teal, tangerine, pomegranate pink. Wood. Forest green, yellow. Yellow, like Calvin’s hair. God. I never share anything I ever write about anyone. I’ve never done that before. If I had my canvas, and my oils, and my paints. Fire.
I will never step up those stairs, my teeth will never mark you again. Ever. The tinge of bitterness in your words, I can still taste. Maybe I let it get out of hand, I forget I was part of the scenario, you see. A younger me would have dared to say I was in love – but you know that takes time. No, I was just the observer. You were the subject. Am I not the impostor when I only exist to watch? Is it perverse? There I was, thinking I could actually write a novel while you told me that I was probably just as colorblind as you. In that tone. That tone that daggers would run shy of.
Here we are though: you have the proverbial conquest. You walk with a little swagger, you have an air of indifference. I have, again, my impermanence to deal with. Eternity has slipped away and the ship has sunk. I am on the rocks, so to speak.
Doesnt she make quite a fool? Isn’t she crazy? What do you say about me? But I am no Sammy.
And perhaps you mistake my taunts for being terrible. Perhaps you mistake my silence for lack of courage. Dear lord, I am anything but.
You deserved better.
But I am a liar. Delusional. A writer.
Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains. ~ Jean-Jacques Rousseau
© The Wild Child Experiment, 2016.
The Wild Child 