Lit Up
Published in

Lit Up

An irrational man

bret marston hall

It’s quite okay every once in a while to imagine the sun is just as you remember. Truthfully he won’t say when was the last time he stopped to look into it, the last time he stopped and was vulnerable to the truth and the way some of us are well equipped to carry it.

Action is a monument to affirmation and vibration.

“Vibration.” Saying it aloud, he wonders in turmoil about the last time he stopped and noticed, the last time he chose to accept that the things outside of him weren’t simply a construct of his own making. They exist as they are, free-standing and alive.

He is, he thinks, a rather large contraption of levers and switches. Strange, he could factory farm his intention with contrived images of what it could be like to be something when really, the striped burns left on the surface of what we want and what hurts us, serves to remind him of the infinitely small nothing that he is. He has stacked up resistance and ill-fitting conversation into smaller jars full of the crash and the pom pom shake of complacency, or the agreed upon personality of the world as it pertains to him on that day. This may be why with every fiber he believes, there is no bird trapped in the sky today, no fish stuck in water, no mind trapped in external machinery.

The door slides open. Moon covers the inner view of her shirt and says, “yeah I remember you”.

This is a miscue and must be restarted. He collects a few random speculative images of what she is when not being anything, when undressed to the point of odor and scars. He walks in and hears the timbre in her voice change to reveal the things he doesn’t know about her, and the things he refuses to see in her.

The things he thinks he sees in her are the same things he refuses to allow himself to touch and capture, like fireflies in the yard.

Quickly he tells her of his sickness as it is involved and deliberate. He tells her of the way he once believed he created the sunrise and the idea of beautiful. His language, diabetic and thick, leaves bear tracks across the ancient yet untouched values in her spirit. She tells him that she questions the potential that his passionate being radiates. She tells him that most times what is obvious in the larger sphere of arrogance, results in a shit storm of maladjusted transactions between those that are lost and those that are forced to leave them there.

He begins to deny everything inside. Through these lies he will offer her openness. He will struggle to give this to her, battered and incomplete, torn and patched up with masking tape, polished with reservation for the day he knows he will always struggle to get to. He wonders if he wants her or just her admission of needing something they might mutually exploit. He objectifies no part of her. He is fixed in a conviction that nothing is greater than the idea of his own personal rapture.

She asks him why he waits for it clumsily climbing the rhetoric and ladders of, ‘once this happens’, or ‘someday’.

“Sweetness,” he begins, “there are few things truer to me than the divine fear I feel when faced with true intimacy. Anyone close enough to find me naked and boastful, will see me as dinner, and sweep me for salt. There must be some equality, some balance for me to heal, stitchless and without scar.” Counting backwards to the moment at the door, he enters again, surveys her room and slides up beside her. He considers what it’s like to feel innocent and trusted.

He knows she feels his eyes on her feet. He knows she thinks he is obsessed with sex, it’s in his mannerisms. He is a brooding fountain of expectation. He mentions that he is only interested in the absolute center of her, and the flower opening there. He mentions white light and the future. He mentions navel rope, thick with paint, forced to an upward release. She laughs freely, here in this place where he says the couches are available until 7 am. She becomes more than the rarely blooming, fruitless tree that grows out of conversations that focus on me, me, and me.

He, that invents himself dominant, is choked to stalling, watching her squirm in her seat. He tells her about the 700 strands of her hair he’s counted since she started walking with him. He attempts to reveal the shadows collected about her words and presence. He has lifted her like gospel and the call and response hymns tossed in earlier lives.

She, he thinks, will shiver from the steady hammering of drums from his side of this war. He thanks her for the truth handed to him like a folded up sky to cut into snowflakes, sky to squeeze into rain and kisses for exhausted, sore soled heroes robbed of their energies.

He explains his stranger than ordinary desire, as if he to be known and studied. He memorizes her verb usage and is struck in a happier sense of “hello, you smell good, can I smell you often?”

His mind is full and unyielding. He’s lost the willingness to share his vision as he knows she will only value the process. He is as a canvass in progress that might be overlooked. No, there are no others born of this clay and tangible earth, I will mold this vessel, trimming and shaping, he thinks. She silences his mind with one lip then two.

There are still words to be said. His reluctance to be responsible to an inner empath relies heavily on an idea born the wrong side of sensitivity. He is still wishing to be free of his single-celled errors in thinking. He is moving toward something similar to reverb and delay, as is her chin in his hand now.

He is moving toward a more intimate way of shedding himself through word arrangement and voice. He whispers that he comes close to stopping elevators, that he imagines her rooftop would not only serve as a place to dine but also to break each other entwined inside their infinite shallowness experienced at casual affection.

“It is not merely a release”, he murmurs. “It is the beginning and the end.”



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