‹ Prequel: It Happened On A Hilltop
Mahogany
un et seul
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I frown at the mahogany stationary box which rests upon my lap of crossed legs, its red-brown, varnished exterior betraying nothing. I trace the metal lock at its front with a forefinger, wishing the contents were real, wishing it's pearly oil-spilled sheen would tell me the secret to living life fully.
Sigh, unlock, take out, spread out.
In chronological order, first to last, red pen to red pen, alpha to omega, I search for some order in chaos. A tint of desperation. I love deceiving myself; it makes the world a little more bearable. Peace from yearning found in moments of fantasy. On some the faded red ink is splotched a little from water damage. I rifle through, glance here and there, reliving my paper wishes:
I want to dance in the pouring rain.
I want to fall from the highest building.
I want to listen to endless bass cello strings thrum.
I want to consume the music which is written in the wind.
I want to devour a cloud.
I want to fly.
I want to die.
On and on and on, thought after thought after thought... And my favourite thought, the one which is easiest to recreate, to consume, to devour, to make real in my dreamscape; I want to be loved.
With this one line I begin to imagine; about the rush of impatience, the way my heart should flutter like a caged bird. Of leaning from one foot to the other in front of the radiator. About twisting my fringe around my little finger, tapping out a pattern against the metal, tracing the mahogany boards back and forth down the wall of the corridor after a while, my heels clicking against the linoleum. I see myself looking for a surely visible path worn by my treading into the floor. I watch the clock count minutes to two o’clock.
The wait is one of the best parts.
Then; being startled by the bell. A sudden slamming of doors down the corridor. Footsteps, voices, noise breaking into my introspective silence. That luscious heavy guilt feeling in the chest. A fake smile exchanged with a passing acquaintance. Swallowing with a tight throat.
“Hey,” he’ll say, he does say; again and again in my head, twiddling with his red pen. It flicks; under, over, under, over, under, over the beautiful fingers of his right hand. The other pulls at the collar of his jumper.
This picture, repeating through my head. A mini instillation art. All framed in mahogany, then scattered around with other little things; the flick in his hair at the parting, that half smirking grinning laugh, the depth of his low whispers, the tickle of his breath at the back of the ear.
His eyes will lock on mine, searching for meaning in cloudy depths.
His lips will meet mine in a crash of desperate passion.
I want more than I know I will ever have: note after note after note, on so many tiny fluttering pieces of paper. Tiny swooping swallows. Little messengers. Paper snow, falling around me. Written confirmation that I’m wanted.
I need this.
I want this.
I want that touch; of his lips on mine; at night when I’m cold and tired, desperate for company. I want to feel someone else there. As if their touch acknowledges my existence. As if that kiss unlocks the I am inside me. Physical confirmation that I'm wanted. I want sunsets, holding hands, rough sand beneath our toes. I want full moons, with freezing evenings, so that I can shiver and not be alone. I want an embrace so tight I suffocate. I want my desperation caught between the sheets and murdered. I want passion so hot I’m burnt. I want life. I want to live. I want to shout. I want to breathe.
I want to love.
I want to be loved.
I stop reading the red as my imagination fails, overheated. I put down the flake of snow-white, engraved with blood-red. These were only ever thoughts. Thoughts written down in red pen. Hidden in a dark mahogany box. Red for love, red for passion, red for anger. All different shades of red mixed into my mahogany box.
These affairs were only ever in my head.
Sigh, collect, put back, lock.
I shuffle back to my bed across the room, whose covers receive me in a cold embrace. Instead of remembering reality which is sad and desperate, I close my eyes tight and re-imagine those lips on mine. The wants and needs written in red and posted into my mahogany box become imagined reality before I sleep. And then, as I slip from conscious to subconscious… then they become reality.
I close my eyes and sleep, surrendering to beautiful oblivion.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
I frown at the mahogany stationary box which rests upon my lap of crossed legs, its red-brown, varnished exterior betraying nothing. I trace the metal lock at its front with a forefinger, wishing the contents were real, wishing it's pearly oil-spilled sheen would tell me the secret to living life fully.
Sigh, unlock, take out, spread out.
In chronological order, first to last, red pen to red pen, alpha to omega, I search for some order in chaos. A tint of desperation. I love deceiving myself; it makes the world a little more bearable. Peace from yearning found in moments of fantasy. On some the faded red ink is splotched a little from water damage. I rifle through, glance here and there, reliving my paper wishes:
I want to dance in the pouring rain.
I want to fall from the highest building.
I want to listen to endless bass cello strings thrum.
I want to consume the music which is written in the wind.
I want to devour a cloud.
I want to fly.
I want to die.
On and on and on, thought after thought after thought... And my favourite thought, the one which is easiest to recreate, to consume, to devour, to make real in my dreamscape; I want to be loved.
With this one line I begin to imagine; about the rush of impatience, the way my heart should flutter like a caged bird. Of leaning from one foot to the other in front of the radiator. About twisting my fringe around my little finger, tapping out a pattern against the metal, tracing the mahogany boards back and forth down the wall of the corridor after a while, my heels clicking against the linoleum. I see myself looking for a surely visible path worn by my treading into the floor. I watch the clock count minutes to two o’clock.
The wait is one of the best parts.
Then; being startled by the bell. A sudden slamming of doors down the corridor. Footsteps, voices, noise breaking into my introspective silence. That luscious heavy guilt feeling in the chest. A fake smile exchanged with a passing acquaintance. Swallowing with a tight throat.
“Hey,” he’ll say, he does say; again and again in my head, twiddling with his red pen. It flicks; under, over, under, over, under, over the beautiful fingers of his right hand. The other pulls at the collar of his jumper.
This picture, repeating through my head. A mini instillation art. All framed in mahogany, then scattered around with other little things; the flick in his hair at the parting, that half smirking grinning laugh, the depth of his low whispers, the tickle of his breath at the back of the ear.
His eyes will lock on mine, searching for meaning in cloudy depths.
His lips will meet mine in a crash of desperate passion.
I want more than I know I will ever have: note after note after note, on so many tiny fluttering pieces of paper. Tiny swooping swallows. Little messengers. Paper snow, falling around me. Written confirmation that I’m wanted.
I need this.
I want this.
I want that touch; of his lips on mine; at night when I’m cold and tired, desperate for company. I want to feel someone else there. As if their touch acknowledges my existence. As if that kiss unlocks the I am inside me. Physical confirmation that I'm wanted. I want sunsets, holding hands, rough sand beneath our toes. I want full moons, with freezing evenings, so that I can shiver and not be alone. I want an embrace so tight I suffocate. I want my desperation caught between the sheets and murdered. I want passion so hot I’m burnt. I want life. I want to live. I want to shout. I want to breathe.
I want to love.
I want to be loved.
I stop reading the red as my imagination fails, overheated. I put down the flake of snow-white, engraved with blood-red. These were only ever thoughts. Thoughts written down in red pen. Hidden in a dark mahogany box. Red for love, red for passion, red for anger. All different shades of red mixed into my mahogany box.
These affairs were only ever in my head.
Sigh, collect, put back, lock.
I shuffle back to my bed across the room, whose covers receive me in a cold embrace. Instead of remembering reality which is sad and desperate, I close my eyes tight and re-imagine those lips on mine. The wants and needs written in red and posted into my mahogany box become imagined reality before I sleep. And then, as I slip from conscious to subconscious… then they become reality.
I close my eyes and sleep, surrendering to beautiful oblivion.