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Old 08-09-2017, 11:16 PM
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chippedmonk (Offline)
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Default Angst Eats the Soul (flash fiction)


In the white room thereís nothing on which to fix my gaze, just white, an absence of colour, the colour of absence, perhaps, like a scar on the iris, only there is no iris, there is no eye. This is a room for thought, thought and perhaps nothing else, the only contentment arises from the coalescence and culmination of mind-constructs, mind-matter. The body responds, isnít the mind body anyway, the distinction like paint on a canvas, the paint isnít the canvas but once applied, once dry, arenít they inseparable? Only the mind is fluid; the canvas remains but the strokes shift, the paint varies, in thickness, in texture, in gradient, a thought that appears pink on first blush is now almost pearly, like pre-cum, like motherís tears, like the strand of saliva that bound your mouth to my finger. In this quiet, you can observe their comings and goings, dark men at a twilit port, boarding a ship, the ship now leaving, another now docking; there is motion, and sometimes rhythm, almost like a waltz, rhythmic but loose, like the movements of a ballerina. And sometimes (like this time) they cascade, bringing to mind, or mind-within-mind, the chatter of dolphins, the polyrhythms of an ancient African tribe, tripping, stumbling, but still coherent, having form, possessing structure, and at last they plunge into the heart, an onslaught of little pinpricks, softening that powerful muscle, softening, letting the blood seep from perforated tissue, and now there is another sensation, wet and coppery in the back of the throat, now, observe, the white is darkening, like a bleached sky gathering coal-dust, darkening like the horizon as the plague approaches, now see the connection, isnít it remarkable, this umbilical link between heart and mind, dearest, itís beautiful, this darkness, pulsing with pleasure-pain, almost a paroxysm, the dark now receding, giving way to the abyss, my mouth approaching its lip, now touching, now leaving a gossamer strand, Iím falling, that familiar rush of air against the body, but know this, dearest, this is not it, this is not goodbye.

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