I loved her in an instant. There was no tangible reason why. She had only the most distant hint of beauty, and she had a desperate clumsiness. She wanted only to flirt, not to reveal anything of herself. Who needs a personality? Who needs these emotional asteroids floating amidst the planets of our most brutal and instinctive designs? I had no time for subjective fields like culture or wit, or kindness, or cruelty. They are all pre-determined, unchanging and mathematical.
The reasons we love people make us all whores. The purest taste of love is that which is unfounded, unjustifiable, enigmatic. A feeling that we want to collide in union and forget, time and consciousness are no longer relevant. The kind of absolute ecstasy of willing yourself to death amidst the most rapturous of heartfire, pumping through your veins like a hot liqueur and reminding you that every moment outside of this beautiful state of being is an incarceration , a numb and vacuous hell in comparison.
Once you have tasted that you can never fill in a tax return, or check that all the transactions on your bank statement are correct. You can never plan what colour to paint your kitchen, and you will never again be able to read the morning news, because somewhere, amidst the vast vault of memories you hold, is a cancerous and deranged recollection of what it felt like to bathe amidst that glorious zenith of higher being. She will exist behind your eyes and she will writhe out her poisonous dance between you and the world, insulating you from peace. Every second that vagrantly flicks by will inflict a wound upon your soul, it will waltz you back in time to when you were King, and torment your descent back down to peasantry.
I wondered how other people functioned? Was this happening to them? How can you go to work, or even have breakfast?
- Extract from a story/novella I'm working on about hypersensitivity towards life. This little passage manages to stand on it's own, so I thought I'd post it. I'm sorry I haven't updated for so long, but time has been short. I aim to be a little more consistent in posting from here on in.
©2009 Copyright Daniel J. Fiasco
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