Nobody knew, where she was. At work, they assumed she was home. At home they thought she was at work. Some friend thought she was with the other. The other thought, that she was with another. Some didn't even think anything. Their heads empty, thoughtless in her regard. While she spent a thankless afternoon in deep sleep on a mat on the floor. Under the influence of dragonberry. Sleeping off the insomnia of a lifetime. All bridges snapped. Phones thrown away. All constraint abandoned, with her elbow like a pillow, beneath the chin. The dragonberry was a hallucinogen. Bringing about an acceptance of loss to when it doesn't feel like a loss no more. Alcohol traded for sorrow. Tears dripped from the corner of her one eye and dried up. The coagulated salt in that and the pinch in her heart. Both stayed though, but gradually got inconsequential. The stitched straw of the mat printed an impression on her cheeks. When she woke up suddenly, fear clutched her heart. Had she overestimated her freedom. Nothing could steal her away from the truth afterall.
He, crouching in the opposite corner of the room, looked at the print on her cheeks and laughed. Aloud. It wasn't funny. And she didn't even fathom why. She was with him. And nobody knew that. Just about nobody. Nobody knowing where you are is as good as death. Or as bad as. They were as good as a couple of dead lovers in a thankless afternoon. It was then, precisely then, that she realized that everything was imaginary. The salt in her tears, the phones she had thrown away, the constraint that held her, the people she put off by knitting one complicated mesh of lies. All of it was afterall, imaginary. Only s/he was the real one. And probably, the dragonberry.
5 comments:
dragonberry is such a beautiful word
I know! It's a rum from BACARDI
This insight was imaginary too, or at least inconsequential. Hope afterall does not exist outside the illusion of it.
Coming to think of it, the drunk is never without the pain, just with the drink. Then again we are always drunk sipping in our imagination.
Touching the real is devastating, do we really want to do it?
I could never quite fathom you, V. But thank you for reading.
Each of us sit on a simple premise Wi, it takes the ending of youth to finally acknowledge it.
Perhaps, that renders it difficult to comprehend understanding each others premises in their totality. There is perhaps no need.
Its our secret and we know its value lies in its secrecy.
And then our arcs cross. Into these neat little sections, where we balk into familiarity and recognition. And cherish each other briefly.
I know you, like you do me in that sense; and I am a stranger as you are.
There is nothing to fathom hence. Words register and click where they are supposed to. And then they bury into little graves inside the mind.
Always read you Wi and sometimes, I see you too.
Thank you too.
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