“”I was writing here” he said, pointing towards the torn journal “when I left.”
“And you were writing there” she said, pointing towards the torn journal “when you left.”"
“And therefore, he actually went away from two places when he was writing in the torn journal?” the children asked their storyteller.
“They asked me the very question I had no answers to”, the storyteller wrote in his torn journal right at that instance.
When she slept on the grass, it seemed she were a plant. And if you’d pluck one of her leaves she’d no longer be able to express her pain.
When she slept on the winds, it seemed she were a cloud. And if there’s a storm she’d breakdown in happiness.
When she slept on a palm, it seemed she were a child. And if her mother returned she’d smile in her sleep.
When she slept in my eyes, it seemed she were aglow. And if the angels came, they’d burn in her flame.
When she slept inside me, it seemed she were awake. And if ever she were to wake up from the others, she promised she’d sleep inside me.
Once upon a time, she was a fairy tale. Magic played on her skin. Children ran through her heart. Many a demons and witches perished on her breath. One day, a prince landed right into her eyes. She closed her eyes. And they lived happily ever after.
But oh! for the boredom of continual bliss. She contemplated suicide.
So, in one fragmented dusk she caught him making love to the fairies. Children learnt new words and went out, playing.
And still they lingered on her lips. The children. The tale of those who were lost with their fading childhood. Reproduction was an exact name. A re-creation of their childhood. A restoration of selves. A wooden plank on the river bed. Flowing. Empty.
After their mother had kissed them, they had ran outside with with the wooden plank.
He went from, town to town selling the breeze of foreign lands. He said he had cure to every disease trapped in his transparent jars. Even death. He had brought many a corpses back to life. One day a child came up to him and said -
“I won’t have a baby brother anymore. My mother had to abort. Father told he doesn’t need another zombie in this house.”
Nobody believed the little boy when he said that he knew magic. So, one day he invited everyone and from the roof of a five-storied building he jumped. Before his body would crash on the ground, he disappeared mid-air. People were awestruck. But to make sure this wasn’t some kind of trick, they pushed a man from the roof. He fell down and died. Someone said, “He was a man. Physics would work differently on him.” So, they pushed a child from the roof. He died, too. Someone said, “He was just a child. Metaphysics won’t work on him.” So, they pushed a famous magician. He died.
And so they concluded that you shouldn’t jump from the roof of a five-storied building or else, you’d die.
When children would dig holes into the sand on the shore, he had started digging a hole into the sky. It ran piercing the air above his head. As his head grew higher, so did the hole. On the end of the hole, he planted a thousand lightbulbs and started living.
One day, when he had become a man, he invited a few guests into his hole. They told him it was a lighthouse.
Evenings have turned to their strands. Leaving my hands wet of the manifold orgasms. I kept kicking the pebble and went where it went. Inside you. The clumsy face of our dead children. Careless kids. They’d always keep coming to us. Breaking into sobs as they spoke –
“Dad, Alice just killed me.”
“Johnny, you should be more careful. It’s a tough time we’re living through and we don’t have enough money for a brand new coffin.”
“But she told nothing’d happen. In the end you never fall.”
“What fall are you talking about?”, we would ask, concerned that he might have hurt himself. “Where have you been?”
“I jumped with her into the rabbit hole.”
 | Mental Mist on It Must Have Been Thus |
 | RaiulBaztepo on Songs of Exhaustion |
 | Average Jane on It Must Have Been Thus |
 | cordieb on Bias: An Introduction |
 | BmbwTBrZyMobuBEqN on Songs of Exhaustion |
