Their World
"Their World"
Of course, there was no re-assurance from them that they would respond to the message I had sent. Morning had arrived.
The day had commenced as any other, unravelling out of bed, in itself a latent form of response to the foggy conversations that had been occuring each night, or whenever I lay down, too tired to keep my eyes open to the real world (this of course, could happen any time of the day...the whole journey being terribly exhausting); I have to sheepishly admit, I was beginning to enjoy more and more, my energy being pulled deeper into the velvety arms of Morpheus' release, slipping swiftly back into the labyrinthine halls of their collegiate world. Always, in that place, there was some Delphic-like lesson delivered in the acts carried out, or the conversations dealt like a shuffling of tarot cards, whispered trance-like, seemingly Blavatsky-style delivered in staccato poetic verse, the metaphors to be swallowed, mulled and deciphered rationally upon fully waking, much later, much much later in the day...like when the Sun marks over the yard arm. Yes, that time of the day.
I arose as if the routine groundhog day shuffle from my rumplestiltskin nest, left behind in my wake, bedclothes tossed aside like anyone would think on first viewing that throughout the night there had been some rigorously amorous and lascivious activity that had taken place in a blush infused unruely state of ungrace, of which there had not (unless unbeknownst to me, some blithe spirit had a romping jolly good time over my mead induced sleeping mortal form)… that this, would inevitably and expectedly (nothing out of the ordinary), lead me to the bathroom to splash daggerishly cold water onto my face, to fully awake, was becoming the statutory norm, the de rigueur du jour for commencing each day prior to imbibing a strong café au lait, then back to an ice cold shower (obviously a sucker for punishment), to fully rid the whole lingering formaldehyde cloak, the after effects of morpheus rising. However, we are not up to that part yet, we are still bent over the bathroom vanity's sink, trying to remember. Remember what, will come much later.
Upon lifting my face from the view of the water swirling loudly (much too loudly) clockwise down the black-holed sink, I hoisted the heaviness of my head upwards, to stand swaying at full height (1.8), as if in line in a Sergeant Major gone all General ground zero parade inspection, ie. standing not at ease soldier, but at full rigid attention, the ghost-like swaying now null and void. I peered into the cold evaluating eyes that stared back at me with preponderance in its reflection. On the other side, from the look conveyed in their cold appraisal, they were none too pleased.
“What are you looking at?” I said with disdain.
“Oh, Nobody, just you again.” So unfriendly, all this said without the hint of a smile.
Upon reflection, that made me laugh, so I ... smiled.
The other side with a certain je ne sais quoi caved in and responded with eye rolling chagrin.
We both turned away and walked out our respective open budouir doors.
Candide Diderot. ‘24
maybe, or maybe not ... to be continued...
Copyright ©
Candide Diderot
|