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Visit by the Godless
Jan. 21st, 2004 03:05 pmI am in a forest clearing and it's Spring. The grass is lush, alive; the trees form a circle around me - they keep the world at bay but they also prevent my escape. Wild flowers grow by the trees. They shimmer with the high noon sun's warmth. I'm neither warm nor cold.
There's a tall mahogany tree in the middle of the clearing. A swing is tied to one of its branches. I sit on the swing and I move my feet. I'm in no hurry, I wait for nothing or nobody.
I'm suddenly not alone; the Godless has arrived. He wears black, his hair reaches his waist. He is my-self when I was 18 years old, but he is also somebody else. He is my shadow, with a face smeared by cosmetics. His mouth is luscious and smudged by bright lipstick - as if a child had drawn his lips with a red crayon. His eyes go deep into his skull. I can see the glee in them, the way he recognizes me.
The Godless jumps on me. He pushes his face into my own and licks me. His hands try to hold me, try to stop my fall from the swing. He knows me, he wants me. For what? I don't know. I try to push him away, fending off a clingy child. I ask myself if I should be somewhere else, if it's my time to leave.
I do leave; I come back into my darkened room - the one with the red walls, the one I will be leaving for good this saturday.
There's a tall mahogany tree in the middle of the clearing. A swing is tied to one of its branches. I sit on the swing and I move my feet. I'm in no hurry, I wait for nothing or nobody.
I'm suddenly not alone; the Godless has arrived. He wears black, his hair reaches his waist. He is my-self when I was 18 years old, but he is also somebody else. He is my shadow, with a face smeared by cosmetics. His mouth is luscious and smudged by bright lipstick - as if a child had drawn his lips with a red crayon. His eyes go deep into his skull. I can see the glee in them, the way he recognizes me.
The Godless jumps on me. He pushes his face into my own and licks me. His hands try to hold me, try to stop my fall from the swing. He knows me, he wants me. For what? I don't know. I try to push him away, fending off a clingy child. I ask myself if I should be somewhere else, if it's my time to leave.
I do leave; I come back into my darkened room - the one with the red walls, the one I will be leaving for good this saturday.
