A Love Story–Because Why Not

A pair of thoughts wandered around fairgrounds. They walked gingerly past a sideshow of old gods to be laughed at. They skipped past an art show of dollar bills. They walked and walked and didn’t stop. They did not see and they did not care, but they felt and they knew. They knew what it was to be and the fairgrounds had not yet indoctrinated them. They heard screams of joy in the night. Somewhere in the distance, an economic rollercoaster and a fairy tale ride into the sun were amusing both adults and children alike. They had a better idea. That’s what thoughts do after all. They kept walking and with every step forward, they took two into each other. 

Thoughts make for good lovers as they are very much all meant to come together. As their metaphysiology commanded, they danced the night away in a motionless kind of away. As they did, everything blurred and began to resemble itself.  

They spoke softly and with the faint rhythm of a lullaby that a mother might sing to a child touched just enough to be happy later in life. They whispered the names of stars and caressed each other’s best and most honourable intentions. There was beauty in such moments, there is no doubt, but the thoughts did not know how to recognize love. That is what thoughts do best. Doubt became a spectre and the lovers came upon a cave. They figured there was a lesson to learn. Along the walls of the cave light danced heretically as gravity dripped off stalagmites. There were laws, but this corner of the world had decided that they were best left to human courts.  

The thoughts, whose hands were now slipping from one another, continued deeper into the cave. At the very end were a couple of historical figures laughing about the ease with which the world had been discovered. The hearts of the thoughts beat a little slower and a little faster. The thoughts felt naked as structure and purpose began to slide off their bare bodies.  

They appeared naked to each other and felt ashamed. 

They saw each other for the first time. The thoughts grew eyes and began to solidify. The overwhelming weight of identity began to weigh them down, but it weighed them down together. Soon they could not separate from each other. A lover’s cage replaced all doubt with a sad inward contempt. The laughing ancients took on a more studious look as one of the younger ones picked up the two lovers and placed them in his zoo.  

The thinkers then left the caged archetypes to their own devices. The lights flickered and sputtered and soon it was just the romance alongside every other academic subject in the dark. Tears were shed that night, needless to say, but they were not lonely. There was a change of heart half way through the night as a quiet young boy was struck by lightning in front of the two lovers. He was struck by lightning and blamed no one, but smiled slightly and asked them their names.  

Suddenly, the cage became adorned with potential. The two lovers considered the question and considered the answer. They spent many a minute kissing each other’s cheeks and laughing slightly at the taste of someone with a name. They finally settled on Henrietta and To-Be-Determined (the T B and D all capitalized). The child smiled as he took this new information into himself and became a new sort of him. Just like that, he collapsed and became a river. This was his final gift to them. They would have to cross and they would have to remember their names on the other side. 

They made their cage into a raft. They took the raft and pushed. The river pulled them. The winds and waters of this deep spontaneous cave were unchallengeable. The two lovers had hubris for a paddle, but it was a fight none the less. The push and pull was infinite and highly mortal. They began to admire their own strength and forgot to pay the same heed to the river and so lost ground. They paid the reverence due to the river and forgot their own and so felt weak. Long story short they made it.  

On the other side, they dried off and laughed at their adventure and could feel their newly formed arms begin to pulsate with will. They were beautiful and now loved the beauty (perhaps as much as they loved each other). They made their way to the nearest wall of the cave. By it, was a sharp stick. The lovers were curious. The eyes of the lovers, green and grey, crawled all over the stick. They took all of it into themselves. The sharpness of the stick pricked and broke the skin of the lovers. A drop of blood slowly made its way down the stick. Out of fear and anger, the green-eyed lover named Henrietta threw the stick at the wall. The blood smeared across the wall where it rests to this day.  

The Way of Angels

There is a jungle in her eyes.
It is growing on my mind like an existential spore.
There’s a neon moon out and it’s only helping the weeds grow in my unkempt soul.
The weeds and underbrush obscure those beautiful eyes.
I need to get out.
I need to know those eyes.
My arms become machetes and I push until I bleed.
I find that it is only my own heart through which I am cutting.
I fall back in a pool of blood.
It is mine.
I take a deep breath.
It becomes harder as the universe presses down on my chest.
She is on the other side.
I draw in deeply.
I lose myself in the flow of life and death.
She is on the other side.
That is the way of angels.