Out of the Blue: A Depressionistic Piece
So damned broad it is that every direction leads to emptiness which will swallow whatever enters it and squeeze a wet creak. Even if I do have a body agile enough to pull out my hooves, so what? The sun is paralyzing me and my temples are bulging.
Give me a water and disappear. Somewhere someone is frying words in the cups of a bra, and that does not even make them angry. A hopeless lot.
I’d better roll the cursor to the top right corner to curse and mouse-click the X and open the next item for there might be something for me to sneer at. No, no laughter, thanks. I have water in my mouth. Mineral to recycle. I may make do with some calculi. It is only a faint pain. Does not kill.
Hello, this is a call from Penisula Hotel beneath the iceberg. If you can hear, please pull out the third drawer of your brains and browse through the tags of origin for Heavenly Capital and pick out the folder of memory for “before 1990.” Open and try to recognize a young man with a pair of respectable black frame spectacles, murmuring “could it be he” and falling into a short reverie before preparing the supper.
If you can not hear, surely you are not to be reminded to hang up and think hard who might be calling you to praise your heart-drilling beauty with a voice that is failing your memory. Let loose your imagination and lipstick your self-love.
By the way, if you want a tentative query, you can always send in a half-fact half-fictional story “A dream visited me last night….and I woke up to find my man gone” or even “You visited my dream about the year when….and I woke up to find my tears wetting my ears” at my new account firstname.lastname@example.org where my hair runs long and black.
The fact is, if facts also exist in dreams, that no doors open by themselves and no doors shut by themselves after being opened. So I now knock knock knock on an invisible door and hope you ask who is there so that I can escape, on the wings of the disquiet from the scooped-out opaque crystal ball that has been rolling in my nightmares and flattening them like a huge road-roller. You face zips by, frame after frame, year after year, unchanging and unending like I am racing at a speed higher than time, westward on a desert.
If everything halts and stills, I wish I could be a groundhog standing arm-crossed in the morning breeze at the rising sun… with a facial expression known to no one.
June 17, 2008