The Reckollecktion
Comfort does not come easily. Their words feels like crusty nuggets left to rot in the company of fruit flies beneath flickering freezers. They taste even worse.
Her face reminds him of thinly plotted soap operas and Saturday morning villains with ghastly mustaches. All it took was a single bat of those dagger-like eyelashes to bring him reeling back into the blinding light of warm, but shallow waters.
He sits, contemplatively, in a canoe grounded ashore, etching the days past with bare fingernails into the virgin wood of an unused oar.
He was the moth and she, the crimson hourglass on the shimmering back of a black widow spider. The spider curdled its fangs as it ensnared its unfortunate victim in an untangible web. Time was of the essence, they said. Time? Essence? 'I do not see the correlation and I am, rather frankly, not amused.' Live your life to the fullest, they pandered on. Life? Fullest? 'Life is a half-empty glass of water sitting on a time-ridden swingset in an abandoned factory workshop in the leering dead of the night.'
The moth could only watch, helpless, as a virulent veteran of the urban slums came shambling in through the unlocked gates, a ragged mess. He greedily slurps away at the Waters of Life.
Her touch sparked the Hellfires of passion within his soul and her kiss inspired the eccentric creativity to dance naked in the street and crow the chorus of some cheap and marketable love song from the rooftops at the crack of dawn. His poetry was, in a word, a can of genetically modified corn. Cheap, and mass-produceable. She loved every letter of his heartfelt work.
He sits, complacently, in a canoe loitering near the edges of some blank beach. He stares at the oar and wonders, cautiously.
Comfort, still, does not come easy. Magnificent sneakers and divine socks do little to ease what many amateur psychiatrists call, 'gaping heart syndrome'. The familiar glow of computers and the rhythmic beat of keyboard salsas are the freeway tunnels to a new state of consciousness. He feels like a new person. He feels like a refurbished couch. 'Please, do sit on me and enjoy my reclining feature.' He whispers, soothingly, to the lost and the weary. 'Yes, pull that handle. Watch your legs swing up. I shall shoulder your burdens and you will enjoy this iced glass of lemon tea.' I press on. 'You! The fat one! Yes! Yes, you, too! This couch with reclining features does not discriminate against the ugly nor the beautiful. You all are the same, plastic, canister of play dough to my L-shaped spine.'
Her footsteps ring like gunshots to his mind. The lights blink like paralytics in a disco night club. It is dark. It is cold. It is lonely. Where have the fires run off to? Where is the inspiration? Where is the creativity?
He sits, knowingly, in the canoe at the edge of the sea. He paddles with all of his strength, his eyes filled with hope and set on the horizon..
Comfort never comes easy. But he has found it all the same. He walks into a room and switches on the air-conditioner. A glass of iced-tea awaits his chapped lips. The couch looks inviting. Weak and weary, he rests against the couch and smiles, thinly. There is a bag of nuggets in his hand. He takes a bite and makes a face. 'What is this?' He asks himself. 'What did I just waste my money on?' He takes the bag and walks to the trash can, throwing the nasty nuggets inside. The bag crushes a moth at the bottom. He reaches for a half-full glass of water and finishes in one swallow. He feels content.
The moth decayed in its web, watching the Waters of Life spiral into oblivion.
The leather couch eased the pain and suffering of all of life's pilgrims.
The nuggets are still terrible.
Her face reminds him of thinly plotted soap operas and Saturday morning villains with ghastly mustaches. All it took was a single bat of those dagger-like eyelashes to bring him reeling back into the blinding light of warm, but shallow waters.
He sits, contemplatively, in a canoe grounded ashore, etching the days past with bare fingernails into the virgin wood of an unused oar.
He was the moth and she, the crimson hourglass on the shimmering back of a black widow spider. The spider curdled its fangs as it ensnared its unfortunate victim in an untangible web. Time was of the essence, they said. Time? Essence? 'I do not see the correlation and I am, rather frankly, not amused.' Live your life to the fullest, they pandered on. Life? Fullest? 'Life is a half-empty glass of water sitting on a time-ridden swingset in an abandoned factory workshop in the leering dead of the night.'
The moth could only watch, helpless, as a virulent veteran of the urban slums came shambling in through the unlocked gates, a ragged mess. He greedily slurps away at the Waters of Life.
Her touch sparked the Hellfires of passion within his soul and her kiss inspired the eccentric creativity to dance naked in the street and crow the chorus of some cheap and marketable love song from the rooftops at the crack of dawn. His poetry was, in a word, a can of genetically modified corn. Cheap, and mass-produceable. She loved every letter of his heartfelt work.
He sits, complacently, in a canoe loitering near the edges of some blank beach. He stares at the oar and wonders, cautiously.
Comfort, still, does not come easy. Magnificent sneakers and divine socks do little to ease what many amateur psychiatrists call, 'gaping heart syndrome'. The familiar glow of computers and the rhythmic beat of keyboard salsas are the freeway tunnels to a new state of consciousness. He feels like a new person. He feels like a refurbished couch. 'Please, do sit on me and enjoy my reclining feature.' He whispers, soothingly, to the lost and the weary. 'Yes, pull that handle. Watch your legs swing up. I shall shoulder your burdens and you will enjoy this iced glass of lemon tea.' I press on. 'You! The fat one! Yes! Yes, you, too! This couch with reclining features does not discriminate against the ugly nor the beautiful. You all are the same, plastic, canister of play dough to my L-shaped spine.'
Her footsteps ring like gunshots to his mind. The lights blink like paralytics in a disco night club. It is dark. It is cold. It is lonely. Where have the fires run off to? Where is the inspiration? Where is the creativity?
He sits, knowingly, in the canoe at the edge of the sea. He paddles with all of his strength, his eyes filled with hope and set on the horizon..
Comfort never comes easy. But he has found it all the same. He walks into a room and switches on the air-conditioner. A glass of iced-tea awaits his chapped lips. The couch looks inviting. Weak and weary, he rests against the couch and smiles, thinly. There is a bag of nuggets in his hand. He takes a bite and makes a face. 'What is this?' He asks himself. 'What did I just waste my money on?' He takes the bag and walks to the trash can, throwing the nasty nuggets inside. The bag crushes a moth at the bottom. He reaches for a half-full glass of water and finishes in one swallow. He feels content.
The moth decayed in its web, watching the Waters of Life spiral into oblivion.
The leather couch eased the pain and suffering of all of life's pilgrims.
The nuggets are still terrible.