Today's Realizations (For Raza)
Sometimes, I fantasize about sleepless sex-filled nights in which He would sigh and slowly pull the curtains closed and I would take Him, again and again, until the sweat clung nervously to his body like spent candlewax.
Sometimes, the fantasy becomes a nightmare, and I am the one taken again and again, not by Him but by a stranger with a beaked nose and fleshy, pale earlobes and a slight underbite.
And the vulture asks of me, his darling carcass, at the end of the night: "What are choices?"
I answer.
Choices are snapshots of uncertain things, of What Should Be and What Will Be and What We Will Soon Come to Regret.
Choices are my mother, creeping slowly toward senility on all fours atop the linoleum kitchen floor of time,
Trying to clean the stains and rust out of her conscience.
Choices are the jolts of static electricity we call love, forcing us against one another unfashionably in ways science will never be able to explain. For when love is dissected, cut into pieces, and placed in cabinets with bone china plates, it is no longer love. It is immune to experimentation and helpless against logic, no matter how tempestuous.
I tell the vulture that love is our last stronghold, and the only choice we make in life is whether or not we give ourselves up to love.
The vulture spits in my face and walks out of my house, leaving the doors open, leaving me shivering in my dirty bed, wondering if I will give myself up to my fantasies or my nightmares.
Sometimes, the fantasy becomes a nightmare, and I am the one taken again and again, not by Him but by a stranger with a beaked nose and fleshy, pale earlobes and a slight underbite.
And the vulture asks of me, his darling carcass, at the end of the night: "What are choices?"
I answer.
Choices are snapshots of uncertain things, of What Should Be and What Will Be and What We Will Soon Come to Regret.
Choices are my mother, creeping slowly toward senility on all fours atop the linoleum kitchen floor of time,
Trying to clean the stains and rust out of her conscience.
Choices are the jolts of static electricity we call love, forcing us against one another unfashionably in ways science will never be able to explain. For when love is dissected, cut into pieces, and placed in cabinets with bone china plates, it is no longer love. It is immune to experimentation and helpless against logic, no matter how tempestuous.
I tell the vulture that love is our last stronghold, and the only choice we make in life is whether or not we give ourselves up to love.
The vulture spits in my face and walks out of my house, leaving the doors open, leaving me shivering in my dirty bed, wondering if I will give myself up to my fantasies or my nightmares.