Incommunicable

Standard

I have weights on my bed. I can’t sleep without weights on my legs. A simple condition.

I’m holding on to every thread of sanity as you sway in front of me without proclaiming a purpose. I want to know you for who you are. I want to know why you’re here. I want to know what is making you sway in front of me with your smiling face, your wavy hair and your moving hands.

The tail that passes by the edge of the door does not alarm me. Everything I see, I see through Nyx, and her profession is erasure. I turn my head moments too late so as to make my vision dubious, was what I saw real? Was it reality under erasure?

Your meaning is elusive and I cannot help but torment myself with all the possibilities which your presence manifests. That is all I can do, torment myself with the passivity of inaction. An action would make me a transparent fool. I am not afraid of humility. I am just afraid of your reaction.

Everything starts with a promise. Being born starts with the promise of eventually dying. Meeting someone, starting a friendship seals the promise of future mourning. All acquaintances have a trace of a farewell. One must always go before the other.

You come closer and then you recede. You write me letters, but then erase. You move your lips without making a sound. You teaser of princes.

When I met her, she told me that her son is in a coma. That’s the first thing she said.

You move like the shadow of smoke. You touch me with your formless invisible hand.

“My son is in a coma.”

You fiery daemon, iridescent like an aurora. Look at yourself melt like a weak piece of wax, only to defy the laws which command me and reformulate your body, straighter than before, more dazzling, more perfect.

“Since when?” The place was brightly lit by an opening in the ceiling, and slowly, as dusk neared, the hall became dimmer and dimmer.

“Since as far as I can remember.” She seemed worried about the departure of the sun.

“It must be hard,” I said, stopping for a moment, hesitating before I asked the question, “where is the father?”

You unnatural virgin, your legs spread wide like the red sea, yet redness is all I see; there is no shore, I need no shore. I want to camp between your legs so that they’ll engulf me, choke me and kill me, mercilessly.

“There is no father, one of those things that just happen without you knowing how. One of those things that you just know will happen to you, as if destined, and there is nothing you can do about it.” She looked through her bag, took out a phone and checked the time. “What do you do for a living?”

You vile temptress. Look at my shaking hands. I clench my fists as if to threaten you, but I’m losing control. I must seize you before the morning, for the dew will destroy you and the light will sear your waxed columns.

“I’m an impresario.” I said, trying to impress her, hoping that I pronounced it right, praying that she didn’t know what it means.

“What’s that?”

But no. You are not to be had. You must remain a distant temptation, a boundary which my arousal shan’t cross. Fierce tyrant, know of what I withhold by this promise.

“I manage plays, help produce them. I’m the person who realizes dramaturgy.”

I arise and you stop moving. Your eyes don’t look at my trembling body anymore. You heard turns and looks abaft to the other end, where my father and his wife sit, judging my movement, entertained by the magnificent spectacle you are performing. He would sacrifice his own son for a night of enjoyment. He would sacrifice me to uphold his sovereignty.

She looks through the opening in the ceiling. “In the distance, I can hear the stars sing to me like sirens, telling me to come and enfold them with the black hue of my existence.” She walks to the centre of the hall, directly beneath the opening. “Do you want to see how I do it? Do you want to see things my way? Impresario?” I nodded.

But I refuse to be sacrificed you wretched servile soul. Stop dancing and come to me, let me put my hands around your neck and choke you. Let me feel the veins of your neck protrude, fighting my grip. Let me sense your pulse plead for a trace of mercy with its irregular beat. You are mine, even at a distance. You are mine. Become the vessel with which I sail away from my father’s kingdom. I will mount you and he will immediately be absent. We can make this happen.

I was immediately pulled towards the opening, and before I could catch a breath to scream, we were both floating weightlessly, so close to distant stars, seeing nebulas in the distance and Earth, lit by rampant civilizations, looking like an ember amidst the darkness which surrounds it.

“You can never sleep here,” she says, “my son would never sleep here. You can never sleep without weight. You need to be pushed down to sleep. But my son is lulled. My son sustains the subsistence.”

Stop erasing and write me unto you. Approach me and with your coming, bring a symbol of commitment. A ring, a piece of cloth, or just your integument. I will shear your hair and change your appearance.

But then I find myself awake, weighed down by heavy pillows and a heavy duvet. Everything starts with a promise, and I was her son, the impresario of dreams. I awoke and killed her with my awakening.

I will hold your tongue with my hand and stroke it with a sharp dagger. It’ll bleed and you will utter the words I want to hear stained with blood. I will never send you back to his highness, the tyrant sultan.

A promise fulfilled: one must always go before the other. A promise broken: never wake up.

"I am Disappointed. Disillusioned. Disenchanted. Dis-enthralled. Dis-entranced," says the asinine impresario before he absconds. And they all hear me, but they don’t know me. They all know it. Nyx is dead.

So I approach you. I come towards you with intent. I get a hold of your wavering wrist and pull you towards me. But I was naïve to think that I could. Your dancing body vanishes and I hold nothing but a perplexed clenched fist.

The alacrity, the emulous spirit departs. The subsistence is no longer sustained. An abeyance awakes the audience, but it’s too late, there is no chance for amelioration or superficial decoration; there is nothing to ameliorate, there is nothing to decorate. Surviving is the other name of mourning. I am awake and Nyx is dead. The subsistence is no longer sustained. One must always go before the other.

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