Glimmers of Reality

So next month I’m moving back to my beloved home country, and along with school/finals that all makes for an incredibly busy life, never mind all the other little things. The writing never ends, but posting will be put on hold until mid-June while I get used to a new life.

Skål!

He waits in a dream divine,
Gazing at you through behind the glassy walls
Of his eternal, wintry prison,
Seeking only to watch your elegant fall
Into a lecherous madness, an exquisite oblivion,
The return to his arms once and for all. 

On a precisely clear morning, I found myself walking the barren city streets of Industrial Town, a metallic necropolis on the most golden part of the horizon. It was not, as they say, a ghost town; indeed, there was not a soul to be seen for centuries, but it did not resonate with the same eerie ambience that most dead places seemed to exult. The silver skyscrapers sliced into the heavens with a celestial presence, giving off a godly authority to the few who wandered on the web-like pathways far below; and each structure, no matter how seismic or miniscule, was just as magnificent in stature as if it had just been built and completed seconds ago. It was this observation, though, that was most peculiar; Industrial Town had, as they said, existed before time itself, and yet the city showed no signs of age, nor comprehended the effects of daily wear and usage.

The sun had risen but minutes ago – in my opinion, and many others, it was the finest moment to view the city from a distance, and to see the glory of the orange-yellow light as a backdrop to the lustrous Industrial Town. Although it was also a moment where none dared to walk among the respectable ruins of the city, for it was when the sun licked the silky sweeps of silver that all the secrets of Industrial Town could be revealed. For all the days I had walked these gleaming roads, never had I fell into the unknown – never had I even understood why this was something to avoid. But the others had their views, and so I kept my morning endeavours, although admittedly tempted otherwise, to myself.

This particular day seemed as identical to all the others, as was the strange setting of Industrial Town – never-changing in feature, yet always different in the indescribable senses. I walked along smooth metal cobblestone, my heavy boots barely rendering a sound on the solidified walkway. There wasn’t any breeze – there wasn’t any weather in Industrial Town at all – but, as always, my mid-length, brown-tinged flaxen hair seemed to bounce in the air with more movement than it did outside the city. Even though there was technically no organic material in the city, everything seemed more alive here than life itself. Maybe that was why Industrial Town had become so forlorn; people feared the abnormalities of the city, and with the nature of the people being to stray from what they cannot give tangibility to, they did not dare to tempt the antiquity of Industrial Town into their lives.

“The thing about life that they never tell you is that it will never make sense. And the best part about it is the more you try to make sense out of it, the less sense it will make.”

I was looking out of a window trying to ignore the rain falling down the glass, watching people run through a crowded parking lot. By the looks of them, dashing out of their cars and sprinting to the nearest alcove, one would think they were in a very uneventful horror movie. There was, at least, a very disappointing amount of blood.

“That certainly makes sense,” I commented, undeterred by my newfound friend’s explanation. A plump, curly-haired woman was battling with a floral umbrella beside her minivan – not making much progress either.

“It’s sort of like time, except time is much easier to make sense of.”

“Oh?” It looked like the umbrella was winning.

“Well, at least I think it makes more sense. Where does that phrase come from anyhow? Making sense? Doesn’t really make a whole lot of sense.”

“I suppose not.” Yes, the umbrella had definitely won. The woman was retreating to her car.

“Are you even listening to what I’m saying?”

I turned away from the window and saw a pair of inquisitive brown eyes and matching raised eyebrows questioning my existence. “That’s why I never use an umbrella.”

He eyed me for a moment. “What?”

“Umbrellas,” I continued, “will always win. That’s why I don’t own one.”

Scoffing, he replied, “Then you haven’t tried hard enough.”

“I certainly have,” I retorted indignantly. “They’re nasty buggers. You should know! I saved you from one yesterday.”

He sat back in his chair and smoothed back his gelled hair, frowning. “Is that what that was?”

“Yes, and you’re welcome.”

We gazed at each other in contemplation momentarily; I listened to the bustling noises of a busy coffee shop on a rainy day, watching my companion stroke his clean-shaven chin.

“Umbrellas…” he mused. “Wait, why do you mention umbrellas specifically?”

“A woman was fighting one in the parking lot,” I answered, gesturing with my head. “She totally lost.”

His eyes widened as he abruptly stood up and took a step back from the table, speaking urgently. “We have to go. Now.”

Betwixt the glimmers of a cosmic eternity,
Traveling through the dreams of celestial desires,
Returns the hour of impossibility, the time of no time
Where space collides in a galactic equation
Of probabilities beyond parallel realities,
Other worlds beyond imagination, beyond life,
Beyond anything the universe has ever seen –
Join the separation of all things and enter
The realm of fantastical actuality.

His apartment was fairly small. As I walked through the tan front door, I noticed the kitchen on the left was mostly enclosed by a countertop, which served as the only barrier between what I supposed was a dining room area and the living room.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he said with a smile as he slid off his shoes and walked into the kitchen. I stepped out of my flats and dropped my bag beside them, slowly meandering to an off-green couch at the far side of the room. The walls were white, although mostly empty, except for a few prints scattered here and there. A mahogany glass coffee table separated the couch and a decently sized flat screen pushed up against the opposite wall, wedged carefully in the middle of a black stand; rows and columns of books and DVDs were neatly organized around the TV.

“I hope you don’t have any knowledge of reds,” he commented as he uncorked a bottle of wine, “because then I’m pretty sure this will be disappointing if you do.”

I chuckled and watched him pour a deep red liquid into two pristine crystal glasses. “Well, if it was good wine, we would be having a perfect night, and that can’t possibly happen.”

He grinned, then sauntered over to the living room and handed me a glass. We sat down on the couch, legs curved in each other’s direction. I sipped from the glass – a subtle alcoholic tinge mixed with a rather savoury, bitter grape taste.

“So?” he inquired, removing his glasses and placing them on the coffee table.

“It’s like I’m sipping from the blood of my dead ancestors,” I replied.

“Cheers, then,” he laughed, raising his glass to mine. We drank; from the inside of my glass I could see his outstandingly blue eyes gazing at me. His dark brown, almost black, hair was short, but it had a bit of a curl to it, and his matching beard was trimmed with an odd precision – slightly thicker than stubble and handsomely styled.

“It’s weird,” he began, putting his glass on a coaster on the coffee table – I mimicked him – as he leaned in a little closer to me so our legs were touching. “Well, I guess weird isn’t the word… I just wasn’t expecting this. I mean, like, in a good way. God, I’m so bad at this.”

I smiled, blushing slightly, then told him, “I wouldn’t want you to be good at it.”

He looked away for a moment, then moved in closer to put his arm around me. “You are an extraordinarily imperfectly amazing person. How’s that?”

“You’re ridiculously sweet,” I insisted, feeling the blood rush to my cheeks. He moved his free hand to my face and moved a loose strand of blond hair out of the way with his long, slender fingers.

“Why did we wait until the end of the world for this?”

I put my hands on his chest and threw my legs over his. “For the bad wine, of course.”

“The idea still bounces around in my head sometimes,” she commented, stirring milk into her coffee with a polished wooden stick.

“Are you ever going to stop thinking about it?” he asked from across the table, staring at her intently underneath his black-rimmed glasses.

“Probably not,” she answered, apparently mesmerized by her hot beverage. Her dirty blond hair was tied back, although a single strand had escaped and every few minutes she compulsively moved it back behind her right ear. “Why should I stop thinking about it? I like the idea.”

He frowned, although his bright blue eyes were smiling beyond the reflections of the outside world moving on his lenses. “You know as well as I do that it can’t happen right now. It’s illegal.”

She grinned and looked up at him with her playful green eyes, lined in black and dramatized with mascara. “That makes it even more exciting to think about.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes. She drank her coffee. He gazed out the window in contemplation. Then he spoke.

“I’m totally going to cave into you. But I guess you knew that, right?”

“Well you’re certainly not here to enjoy the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans, right?”

A smirk leaked onto his lips as he leaned over the table and moved her mug aside.

“Fine. You win.”

I once had an idea that I would travel into another world and become entranced by a realm of an entirely different creation. As reality would have it, this would become the single pathway in life that I ran down with serrating fear and panic in every pulse of blood that traveled through my arteries and veins, caressing my heart with the sweetest evil. It was not a choice, but a death sentence that pulled at every fragment of my mortality, begging me to join the nothingness which swarmed around me and invaded my thoughts. The void whispered to me, and the call came from every direction, warping my sense of time into a figment of a child’s fancy. I could no longer resist the temptation to find the beyond, to travel to where even death could not go.

This is my story; this is my pain – the eternal flame I cannot smother, burning deeply within my soul, or at least what was once my soul. Learn the lessons I could never learn, but do not answer the questions I have answered; it is here you make the choice to obtain a knowledge you will wish you never had. It is here you will know what you will wish to never know again.

It begun before I knew what I had gotten myself into. As a curiously defiant individual, I longed for adventure, although I see now that it was only danger that I sought. 

World winds withering away a subtle contemplation,
And instead an idea sprouts in the midst of cosmic chaos,
The flares of a solar storm raining down
On a molecular force field, a genetic inquisition
For the intelligence of an emotional species to face
Alone, but never beyond the grasp of a spiral arm.

Though we are worlds apart, I feel so close to you right now.

When I look up at a burning night sky with the intensity of the oncoming storm fresh in my veins, I imagine the possibilities that tomorrow will bring. I imagine the little choices I make – three miles or four, same song or more – and I calculate the amount of courage needed to make something happen. Whether it be the subtle shift of an eye or the soft vibrations of an incoming call, I know that our worlds can collide in an instant.

And in the heat of the moment, no one stops to think about the past or the future. The present precedes all, and yet fails to form in any tangible pondering. Like the mysteries of the cosmos so do our days fill with the insanities of the unknown, but that never stopped anyone from exploring – and within the obscurities of night so revealing does the light become.

Beyond the rolling thunder of my imagination I can sense the intricate motions of a beautiful descent, an unfathomable ecstasy made logical by the clockwork of reality. This is where I reside, in the unbelievable made conceivable; thus, the soft obliteration of a falling star gives earth the dust of dreams, a life impossible and yet existing all the same. All on a supposedly insignificant facet of the universe, though strangely significant I feel.

No one will stop me from the actions unborn, the influences unsaid, the rewards unclaimed. Listen to the beating of any heart and silence all thought, then know the pulse of my intent. I walk with a steady pace, though my mind travels faster than any light known to humankind. So make it an intelligent design to know – for I will travel far to reach you – that the glances passing between us are more cosmic in elevation that anyone will ever know.

All in a moment – a moment in time – will doors open that have never opened before.

Below the starry heavens they meandered,
Strolling down the dimly lit cobblestone streets
And surrendering themselves to the night;
With nothing but spontaneous expectations
Guiding their hearts through the dark,
They wandered amongst lost souls until dawn
Drew them to the warmth of a new day’s sunlight.

Suddenly I saw myself in that hallway, not thinking about any of the consequences of my next few steps, not knowing the eager truths waiting behind the last door on the right. I could feel my heart beating in my dazed excitement, generous amounts of blood rushing to every part of my body. All the way from my chest to my limbs, where I was utterly aware of my pulse, to the tips of my fingers, screaming with a sensation that both warned me and encouraged me to follow the bony fingers interlocked within my left hand.

He was pulling me towards the door before I had a chance to consider the implications of locking myself in a night where parallel realities are abundant. There was something about his shadowy figure, the way his grip held my lack of realization, that made me abandon my thoughts and revert to an instinctual paradox – like knowing the climax of a song and yet still feeling the rush of nerves travel up the spine in anticipation.

I was telling myself to turn away, knowing the following events would be an etching in the stone of my life. Yet the voice in the back of my heart released my resistance to another world. Later, I thought, I would regurgitate this experience and drown in the cataclysm of topics swarming my mind.

And before I could whisper a bittersweet surrender, he had turned his gaze onto mine and ushered me through the door with his intensely dark eyes – I followed, watching him close the door behind him with a quiet click. Two sinuous hands found their way to the small of my back, a finger or two lifting the folds of my shirt. He leaned his head close to mine; I could smell the fragrant red wine on his breath – a toast to friendship, of all the curiosities in the world. I put my lips close to his ear and whispered words that put a beautifully sad smile on his face.

“It’s too late to change.”

When I first met you, I saw your years and immediately put you out of my mind. Yes, you were brilliant, yes you were compassionate, and yes, you listened to every letter of every word that tripped its way out of my mouth. But after the weeks began to pass, I noticed you were paying attention far more closely and with far more pleasure than you should have been, and suddenly you entered my mind and infected my thoughts like a parasitic dream. That’s when the trouble began.

I remember our conversations like we were the only ones in the world when we spoke, like there was nothing and no one else, and time was only a concept for the foolish. But more importantly, I remember when you accidentally whispered words of beauty as you blushed and looked away in embarrassment. I should have told you, right there on the brink of nonexistence, that you were the voice in my mind telling me of the serendipity of our beings. Yet the regret washed over me as the moment quickly passed and you returned your gaze at mine with your vague blue – and I thought they were brown – eyes.

Your final invitation is what intrigues me the most, and every time I walk along that broken cement pathway I think about the delusions awaiting that invitation. More importantly, I ponder the misfortune of my mind to think that the illusion of the unknown is not the reality that it could be. But still I linger along the lines of your offer, and I cannot indulge a decision just quite yet.

The moments before I take the stage, I know that all eyes will be on me, including yours. I think about the moment when you stumbled over your words for the first and last time, and I remind myself not to fall down the stairs I will shortly climb.