Pieces

I am holding the key to the universe, it is in my shaking hand, I look at it with a tremor, and I feel tears slowly swelling up in my fear-stricken eyes.

They key doesn’t weight anything, its cold and burns my palm with unbearable pleasure. Concentrate. I stare at it in awe because I know deep down that it can open anything. And the idea brings my mind to a point where it can easily explode, any second. The possibilities… they are quite endless… Slowly the warmth inside of my belly is slowly moving down the path, the forbidden path, lower every half a second, or maybe it’s journey is slower, unbearable, thought in my brain racing…

I put the key in my mouth and its metallic taste spreads all over my tongue. I close my eyes, breath out slowly and swallow. The cold angular object travels down my throat, deeper, until I lose its track completely.

I blink my eyes. His face is in font of me, looking at me intently, eyes are serious and I have no idea what he might be thinking at the moment. There is a wall, its concrete and rough, I touch it sometimes, drag my fingers and feel every little bump and crevice under my finger pads, the softness of the skin and eternal complexity of the surface of this wall in front of me. I lean with my body and relax. I can live like that, with this wall in front of me sometimes, it’s just another ingredient among all the other flavors.

I see him again for a split second, it’s a torture because his flavor is much more complex that the one of the wall. The dullness of the warmth of cement under my tongue is something much more familiar that his thoughts. I close my eyes again….

-What do you want to talk about?

-Are you sure it’s okay if we just talk about me?

-Positive.

-Of course. Since you are just a reflection of my feverish imagination. A fraction of hidden desire.

-Maybe. Does it matter how you get to the point? Does the journey matter, isn’t it all about reaching the end? The last second of complete satisfaction?

We are in a closet, its just enough space for the two of us. I’m sitting with my knees pulled up to my chin, I’m comfortable as my body relaxes into the fluffy carpet underneath me. We are surrounded by complete darkness, soothing gloom caresses my body with millions of invisible atoms that breath and move around me. I can feel almost unnoticeable sensation of their stroking; I’m a part of my surroundings. I’m just another ingredient.

-So, where should we begin?

-I swallowed the key…

-May I ask why?

-It’s easier that way. I can just continue by moving forward, slowly with my eyes half closed, concentrated on everything and nothing at the same time. It’s easier to swallow food that way, when its just about filling your stomach and only occasionally the taste wakes me up for a brief moment with its unbearable depth. Can we actually live with our senses stretch out like a string of a harp? Would life be possible if every moment our senses were acute like a freshly sharpened knife?

The voice on the opposite corner of the closet is silent. I can only distinguish barely noticeable breathing. It makes the atoms sway in small waves before they reach my face and lightly hit my skin. I shiver.

-Unfortunately I cannot answer this question.

We breath… it’s like playing slow motion tennis, the atoms of her breath travel across the field and I can feel the air move still slowly but with exhilarating energy towards me, I inhale, accepting her breath that tickles my throat and slowly disappears somewhere dip down. I hit the wave back at her, in anticipation of her inhaling a part of me. The invisible exchange of pieces and parts of my and her worlds in this small-enclosed space is comforting and I forget the nagging feeling deep down.

- Do you know why you are here? Do you know what would make you complete so you would stop asking yourself why you are here?

“In My World….” – I suddenly remember Alice in Wonderland and her dissatisfaction with surroundings which are so familiar to us. The everyday, the beautiful world that surrounds us that teases us with possibilities of almost magical, almost fantastical. So often what we see is close to the edge where imagination almost makes it real. Almost… but never completely, unless we are under the influence of a chemical that makes the impossible reality.

“In my world…” I think I could be invisible, not just physically to myself and other people around, but completely invisible to the possibility of god, people who passed away, my conscience and my soul. Maybe I would leave my body, and be free to go anywhere without usual boundaries of transportation and obligation to other people around me. What if my body kept on going the usual way, like I haven’t left at all but I would be in the green field full or blood-red poppies, and I would be running, running to and from nothing. Just running while my ankles would be touched my thousands of tender poppy petals. Does it matter that it’s not real, that the hem of my long white dress in reality would never turn bleeding red and the color would never trickle from the flowers to the bottom of the garment and slowly spread to my thighs, - cold and wet. It makes me shiver in anticipation. I slowly fall to the ground and disappear in the tall grass; I’m like the swallowed key to the universe, slowly melting into the ground.

When I stop, I slowly realize that she is no longer there. It’s just me alone sitting in the corner in the dark. I sigh. I close my eyes again and lean my back onto the wall. Its smooth and ice-cold surface seems to attack the tenderness and relaxing state of my skin. I press my back harder into the surface, the atoms invading each others territory, slowly blending together until its like a slow kiss, that is comforting and makes you shudder on the inside at the same time.

My thoughts are scattered. I can’t seem to concentrate, there is small part of my body that is experiencing sweet pain, it brings a smile to my face. I reach into a pocket of my dress and get my phone out. I start typing…” If you were not human, but an ingredient in my world, would you go with me where I would ask you too? With no questions asked. Do I like you because it’s you, and physically there is nothing not to like or is it because you drive me insane sometimes? When I put my hands on your shoulders and want to shake you up because there is so much nonsense coming out of you, is that the best feeling or what?!

Connection that is the things that constantly brakes, defective mechanism that we cant live without but it constantly fails. And we are left alone, detached from the rest of world despite the fact that we are surrounded by hundreds of people in the street at this same moment. And our eyes glide from one another, and we observe and take in the foul smell of humanity heated up on scorching summer day. It’s starting to rain… People scatter around, opening their umbrellas, pulling on the hoods, running into the stores. The drops fall like sharp arrows, slicing though the air and aggressively invade my body. I still, shut my eyes and whisper: “make love to me. Now!’ The scream is echoing through the space, it’s so close to me; I close my ears and open my eyes. Its hard to see through threatening rain that seems to cut my skin into small pieces and get though all the layers of my body, freezing everything on its path. I’m still in the street, however it looks abandoned now. Grey buildings are somber and seem taller, pressing on me with their unshaken stagnancy.

Have you ever walked around with a bullet wound? The hole in your body is not fresh anymore; the edges are covered in damaged skin mixed with small dry pieces of blood. Liquid still slowly oozes out and burns the last particles of still alive flash. You walk into a store, you stand in line, you explain why you are here today. You leave the building, you start driving, and your wound still hurts. The bleeding doesn’t stop in spite the fact that it’s been eight and a half months. I slowly touch the wound, it’s moist and at the same time crusty feeling is so raw and real that nothing else seems to matter. My wound and I are enveloped in our solitude. I saw wish that I could make you a drink out of my pain, so you could really taste it. With a touch of your tongue, you would experience a burning sensation, and with each sip, you would know exactly why I am who I am and how every little step I take is connected to the pain in my wound.