Another postmodern sunset, rich in romantic imagery. Why try to describe it? It's enough to say that everything in our field of vision seemed to exist in order to gather the light of this event.
~Don DeLillo
The sun, which hemorrhages like a split half of an overripe melon, bleeds razorblade red sunlight through the dusty windows. We sit facing each other, together, again, nothing different, the conversation a finely ground latte of the absurd. An air of dignity wraps itself around me like a forgotten scarf, and I begin to speak to her of things I know not of.
In my best professorial voice I muse, “Aren’t we always running? And what from? What’s chasing us? Our frenzied bodies must eventually come to rest on the sullen ground. Even if we outrun mortality, death waits at the finish line. Oh my dear…”
Her hands float in the air majestically as she shrugs, whispers something in French. The light hits her in a certain way. I can’t stop looking at her face. Her green gaze settles deep into my blue bewilderment, and suddenly I realize life is her paradox, her solution is spoken in staccato laughter.
My body, a constellation of tingling nerves, feels radiant and heady. Smiling sadly I offer a final question, tears rushing up into my eyes, like anxious men emerging from the bowels of a ship.
“What can we do with such a life?”
She shrugs and smiles, smiles and shrugs again. I fear she has said too much.
Fallen leaves tick against the windows.
Shadows melt into the corners of the café.
Time. Has. Less. Meaning.
I bite my lower lip, lean in so close I’m almost touching her face, and whisper, “Perhaps there are times when not only do we forget who we are, but who we are to be.”
Why did I say this? Is it even true? What do I mean?
1 comment:
i feel you are starting to develop your own style of writing. this is good. keep going down this path and see where it takes you. there is a common style in your last month or two.. keep going.
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