It doesn't take an alien abduction to lose time. It doesn't take a mushroom to solve a burning mystery.
The rough lapping sea on a chilly night, is syncopated with the quiet rowing of unseen fishermen. Though the air is clear, the heaviness of low-lying fog banking on shoulders of weeping tavern storytellers is palpable. Gasps and held back tears stifle breaths in the rib cage like snares that smother traffic on a busy city street linger like a mother's last words. Attempts to keep attic dolls smiling and perfect peaches in tight mason jars fail miserably as you stumble clumsy on up and down yesterday's stairs, kocking over dolls and jars like dominoes. There is no sense in munching aspirins with a sour stomach and intestines full of compounded mistakes, but drinking them down with water might give you time to think about dreams you chased away after asking for them. The silence cuts Matisse paper dolls out of museum walls. It suffocates the shy sly vulnerable volatility of the cranky prankster with pockets for ears.
The universe dosed some sleeping fawns with too much love for this endless game of cards in a study where reading the books lessens their Rayndian value. Rolling down honeymoon slippery slopes and falling off the cliffs of a Virgil paradise are a thing of the Victorian past.
Shimmying bows of light from a desolate pier break on heavy rocks and pound a hidden shore. Surrounded by skeleton trees bending blithely in the non-confrontational winds, forgiving the numbness of limited thinking in human shells. The arc of a ship awaits a return to the stellar dimensions of the cosmos. A star explodes to underscore a verbal epiphany shared by friends cool to their lava strength inspirations. Exhalations are lengthy and the brain tries to wade in shallow waters amongst centuries of old friends piecing together the stories of by-gone eras. Peace by piece.
It was a night of stage fright and ylang ylang, a sensual floral aroma that scours scenes from your timeless psyche in an attempt to clean the muck and restore the reflective sheen of cooking pots in your soul's kitchen. It was an evening of reverberating empathy between a woman who flies over the streets of horse-drawn-carriage-London and a woman who grew up being chased by a flying magician, with a top hat, cane and cape, through endless vineyards into the dawn. Vain attempts were made to save the family from this flying wizard with piercing blue eyes who spoke telepathically in this recurrent nightmare. "You know you cant save them, its only you I want. This is a dream, and you're not waking up, you're coming with me."
This is a night that facts, figures and scientific studies hold the secret to finding one's voice in the dark chamber of resistance. Rejoicing arm and arm, basking in the modernity about them, rainbow stickers on new cars, electric street lamps, their painted lips and love of the theater not making them vulnerable, as it had, not so many incarnations before. Suddenly, the faint superimposition of a narrower cobbled lane with taller buildings on either side looms over the two. Someone or something with heavy feet sinks into the sidewalk behind the heels of the startled ladies. It vibrates the body and triggers a vertigo falling into the past, descending from the comforting present into a historical moment. A sharp object seems to dig in through the base of the neck on the blond, followed by a blunt whack with another object, a squeezing possessive firm hold that feels like Satan's love, and a strong blow to the head. This is what remains in the spirit body, not the DNA. Every stolen nook and cranny of human safety sucked out of a human vessel like a vacuum-sealed envelope to a God who betrays good girls gone bad. Buttons and bits of brightly colored lace lay around a corner like a clawed scarlet macaw. Such birds belong in houses, in large cages. Not on the streets past midnight.
Imagine, will you for a moment? Taking a dip into ancient history, a night ghosts have long tired in reenacting. A fruitless search by Scotland Yard, revealed inconclusively multiple suspects. Multiple handwriting samples spark copycat theories, wannabe notions. But you know the truth. And perhaps more importantly, so does she. The inhuman eyes that slashed throats like veal on a butcher's block and sealed it with a hairy kiss. An entity carves black holes in the comprehension of historians for ages to come, and leaves tongueless question marks on shaking forsaken flesh, on twin Magdalenes in brightly colored bows. And the ghosts of these stage actresses will inhabit many places, before they find their homes again. Madness junkies, escape artists, trying to out run the flying magician who stole bodies and made them his temporary home. The blood thirsty thief of night with inhumane eyes, holding a torch for death culture only similar vampires could understand through the evocation of the hateful "god". Floating by the homes they once owned, these wonder if their return would be welcome.
A calligraphied tattoo on the scapula reads: Don't you dare remind me. If you burn fossil fuels with rage, they don't last as long as when you burn them with love.
For the empath who can transport herself into someone else's shoes and view through their eyes, it is sometimes hard to know if she is feeling herself or someone else. Am I the dreamer or the dream? Whose life is this anyway?
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