Like stepping into rooms that are almost, not quite formed, inhabited by blind guides. Enthusiastic sages, whose mouths drip with the oozing compost of yesteryear’s salvation. I’ve seen this one before, this party is the same as the last. The sigh that slips out is like so many lungs full, from a balloon released from a child’s clumsy fingers.
I look back for friends, praying to step through the threshold accompanied. Who likes to show up standing with the host, making small talk with the gal holding the shrimp tray, trying not to let the eyes linger where they shouldn’t. But the air is slipping out of the front door, threatening to change the world outside. It’s not like there was a choice, move forward, or step back. One last glance, behind the hedgerow, beyond the gate, the clamor already complains.
The air is penetrating still until lilting melodies, crack open each room like canned joy, preserving the freshness of someone else’s moments. Sharp laughter of someone hunting for their self-esteem pierces the stochastic void, reminds me of the last time I cried. The sound waves carry reluctant feet down dark halls lined with the regrets of paths not taken, painted over with grim smiles. Reminders that the future is already littered with the corpses of good intentions.
The hall ends in an ornate door, carved by hand with sigils and runes, marked, ‘remember’. I want to, because surely what has been is not all that there could have been. I step up, alone as on the last day. Praying that ahead there is a miracle that rescues from certainty, and it’s like a voice on the other side whispers “this is it,” but when I turn the handle, it’s just another room. One more closet full of the artifacts accumulated in the pursuit of meaning.
I want to respond to The Body that Hoped Not to Be Real. By hellopoet(ry) wordsmith: Rastislav