|Surrealistic Prose on my Loss
Author: The Magician Joseph PM
surrealism.Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Drama/Romance - Words: 895 - Reviews: 2 - Published: 03-04-08 - Status: Complete - id: 2484276
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
He is in the dark; it is cool and mostly pleasant. The moments stretch into minutes that desperately try to march into hours. He is alone at the moment, clad in his favorite colors of mourning, and his favorite lighting of the single thinly curtained window.
He is numb, and his head swims slightly in a sea of processed, but unfelt memories.
There is a knock on the door that echoes through the quiet room, the percussion is a shock to the numb man sitting beside curtained window.
The man gets up from his seat in no particular rush and opens the door; the girl of his memories is sitting there. He can remember her face, heartbroken in public, a mask of tragedy as a last defense to keep it going… the final appeal to what is human in the man.
The appeal had failed, and the man had left and left himself with nothing, nothing that is but the bottle and a swaying ambition towards the grand.
"Won't you come in?" He says to the girl.
She takes her step over the threshold, her toes daintily crossing the barrier as if forces would rise up to oppose her.
"I was just thinking of you. What brings you here?" The man continues as he reclaims his seat by the window.
"I was around, and I figured that I would see how you are doing?" The girl says. Her voice is soft, perhaps unsure of itself in the booming silence that fills the room in abundance.
"I'm so glad that you came, I'm happy that you made it here. I know it is my fault that things turned out the way that they did, but perhaps you would take one last dance with me?" The man appeals to the girl.
"You had me once, but you gave me up." The girl says to the man.
"You held me so tight that I thought I would suffocate. I realize that I don't have anyone to hold me anymore though." The man says as a rebuttal.
The girl who is attired completely in white distorts in view momentarily, her image becoming haze in the gloom of the room. When she becomes strikingly real again her dress is gray. She is soiled in the stains of grief and failed innocence, the type that comes from forever being a falsity.
"I was always so quick tempered; I think I've learned a bit though." The man says.
The music starts, a slow waltz filled with as much passion as technique. A melody with a wonderful slow tempo that invites the feet to move to it, the man stands up and invites the girl into his arms.
"I am in no mood to slow dance; I can now dance fast or slow with someone else now. You always wanted to dance slow, lamenting the griefs real and imagined placed on to you by this world." The girl steps back from the man. As he once distanced himself from her, she now distances herself from him; placing a chasm where romance once stood.
The slow waltz, the same old song of the always stops playing, it is replaced by that of a violin slow and soulful, but still indulgently dirge like.
"If you do not want a last dance, then what can I offer you?" The man says, his face the over worn expression of explicit tragedy.
A pause in the dialogue, one of discomfort and no small amount of pain, the girl finally works the underused muscles of her jaw to form words to cut the lull.
"I came for my self image back; I would also like my ideas back. You emptied me out and filled me up with so much of you it is interfering with my life now." The girl says.
The violin intensifies, the music is no longer bow to horse hide, but being played by a razor on the tendons of the man's arm. His arm is held parallel to the floor; his tendons are rising from his wrist in a delicate yet bloody tuning and tautness. The razor runs its course over them bringing forth the sweetest melody.
"Of course girl, they are all in the drawer in the back of my neck. You can have them back the keep crawling into my own head from which I have tried to banish them." The man says.
The girl approaches the man and turns him around removing the drawer from the back of his neck, in it nestled safely is her self images and nuances and perceptions. She takes them from the drawer and sets them in the breast pocket of her dress.
This action reminds the author who is perceiving it of a day on the beach, and the warm sunlight that he had felt on his bare shoulders. The ocean was so blue and cool, and deep, deep, deep. I still visit that ocean in my dreams, sometimes it is a pool filled up with the smiling concepts of affection.
After the girl takes her possessions back she leaves the room, leaving the man's drawer empty to be filled back up by something eventually. An invisible tie of warmth between the two exceedingly delicate individuals is severed, the music stops, the man is left alone to his contemplations.