My flesh traveling faster than thought. My mind caught on that last glimpse of reality. Still and stiff, pending on the heavy air like the last pear on mother tree - ripe and full of regrets, clinging on the dry branch and never looking down. Around what's left of my last desire is only one colour. My brain strips as the air is playing the favorite tune, that tune! And it starts pouring down; the departure of my soul splashes on the ground and screams mercilessly, shattering the colour to its origin. I'm on a mission to play bowling with every single thing that stands up tonight. And I'm determined to make them all hit the ground and beg for an ending, no glory, just pure sheer termination. The sound echoes itself on the shell that once carried my being; it sounds better this way I think, since my flesh was never known for its bearable voice.
You are drawing the lines of your journey on my skin. And I shouldn't even bring you into this. But I'm hitting all things said and done tonight, so come my friend, spread your legs and strip for me, you and I will both feel undone and ready for another spasmodic round when the colour dies.
I am going back. I am not going back, not to the beginning, for I was never told that such a thing exists beyond my nightmares. Whatever I was told or been taught I have since mocked from the first touch of ray to the mist on butterfly wings. So let's start from the beginning.
There is this colour that has been chasing me every morning since I wake up. It's got the breath of the eternal drinker. No matter how hard I brush its teeth, I can never manage to get close to it. So I grab the toilet brush, determined that a spring cleaning of its stomach is my only hope to closure. And there it lies, in front of me. The colour's stomach is a pale white, torn off from some medieval bed sheets, signed by who knows which one of my selves. The laugh that the simple banality of a stinky stomach evokes on me is bursting through my lungs and out of my mouth and the slightest thought that I could somehow prevent the laughter from ruining this solemn moment cracks me even more. Did I say the beginning? I calculate the time it would take me to go through time knots and untie them. And then I add up the time that I'd spend calculating the time that it would take me to go through the knots to untie them. The price of time goes up, while feta cheese is still my only substitute of salt. The colour is mad. It's waiving its shades and it's threatening me with monochrome.
With hands that stretch beyond today I pull my spine out. The column that once held my flesh and gave it an identity moans for the last time as it gives itself up to my thought's laughter. Free, I think, as the mass that once identified with my being dissolves into a huge amoeba. I spread. Face down. I spread, while MY thought drips the last of its hopes above my head. The colour still stinks, for I can see the air around me holding its noise in disgust. I can laugh now. My senses numb, I can only smell my own breath. I grab the spine and shake the pear branch. It cracks. My mind stripping, your desires spreading. The colour dissolves to abstinence. Screw the beginning, f'uck the end and make it choke in its cum. The in-between, the threshold of my raid submits to the sorrow of the colour. I squeeze its breath, while the pigment multiplies through my fingers. I feel its roots pressing through. I hear the crackling of the knots untying. My flesh traveling faster than thought. The colour is begging for an ending. And it is a glorious one, the one that never makes it to my nightmares