strange was the night

That night

Was the night she slipped her feet into that blood-red shoes.

Red so Beautiful. Wicked. Slippery.

Darn! She stumbled. Not into that famous silvery coach made of pumpkin. But onto the wings of one repulsive beast.
 Taken off. Higher. Lesser. Blown into oblivion.

She’s deep among slivers of surreptitious whispers. She floated on thick liquid sky. She’s on a train heading south. She’s in solid mist of cotton-candy happiness. Their happiness. Not hers. Hazy. Suffocating. Sickening rosy cheeks. Asphyxiating sea of roses. Ran! she ran and ran…until each shred of clinging-pink-happiness came off. Until chunks of her own ecstasy fell off…to be wolfed down instantly. By those ravenous yellow-eyed faces in the dark.

That night
Darkness spitted out the red hot revelation. Damn red against the murky face of oblivion. Spilled forcefully into the maze of her brain. Damn red she tried to catch it with her tongue. Tasted nothing. Nothing. For the moment was already lost to her. Stolen by the face that swallowed time. But gasp! then she saw it. No, not saw. Felt it. Uncompromising. Burning. The double-edged blade. O that sweet twisted creature who held it. Jagged. Pierced its way through. Through the muscles. Ripped open the world beyond the wonderwall. Where flower grows. Flowers with thorns. Tore her from the inside. So there’s blood. Invisible. Yet which taste she found quite real.

Tongue sticky with invisible blood, she sat. Sat there thought she would choke. Thought she would have to throw her guts out. But no. Tasted alright. Tasted like laughter. Like tears. Like rain. Like pain. Like sea. Like sky. Like fear. Like grit. Tasted of everything. Of nothing. With each drop, she felt something else slipped off. But she didn’t mind, did she. Guess that’s the way she liked it.
With tongue sticky with blood, she smiled.

that night

Was the night she lost an earring and found a boy.

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pure present

The pure present is an ungraspable advance of the past devouring the future. In truth, all sensation is already memory [henri bergson]

Nothing is as persuasive as the eloquence of lovers; they have a logic that comes from the heart, which has never been the same as that of the mind.
>taken from Marquis de sade’s Virtue: Ernestine, A Swedish Novella

true love

“George who is good to me, and whom I revile; who understand me, and whom I pushed off; who can make me laugh, and I choke it back in my throat; who can hold me, at night, so that it’s warm, and whom I will bite so there’s blood; who keeps learning the games we play as quickly as I can change the rules; who can make me happy and I do not wish to be happy, and yes I do wish to be happy. George and Martha:sad, sad, sad.”

From: Who’s afraid of Virginia Woolfe- Albee