Dawn was breaking over the plains; those plain plains stretching out into the distance.
And we were alone- together, but desperately divided- separated on two different planes of existence.
I don't believe in the future, the future holds nothing for me. And I don't put much stock in things that don't reap much of a reward. I'm not too fond of the past, either, but still I must confess myself consumed by an overwhelming obsession with the things which have been. Things that went right, things that went wrong... So many things... So little time in life to replay life, to play and pause and manipulate those fragments of life until you've created something so incredibly fantastic that you have to believe it is true. I try to remember the details, but the edited film is so much more entertaining. No gray areas to sift through, no endless monotony of sky and sea and those horrible, horrible plains. Just hills; hills and plateaus and mountains, mountains, mountains! Mountains breaking through the gray sky surface, penetrating the depths of the ocean, causing a rift in the great glassy plate as it shatters on the rock.
A young boy is paddling over his reflection, tracing intricate, overlapping patterns in time. His name is Odysseus. He is my son. And little can he fathom that many fathoms on he will reach the lair of Scylla, and that, being one man, his body will be ripped into six, so that he may soothe the insatiable appetite of each undulating corpus. If he is lucky, he will pass her by and meet with with Charybdis instead; but for now he dreams only of Calypso, far, far away. And as he paddles, he fades- fades into the obscurity which is the fate all dreams face. Maybe if they drift far enough they do reach Ogygia. I do not know.
I am reading the newspaper with Henrietta today. She says, "Let's go to the beach." But the beach is always so crowded and besides, it looks like rain.
Outside, the Sirens are wailing, and Odysseus is flailing his head in a most horrific protest.
Henrietta doesn't mind; the is glossed head to toe with synthetic polymers; gleaming plastic coat and tote and goulashes...
His hands are raised.
Her spirit is soaring.
"Life is giving way to adventure! You cannot hide behind words for the rest of your life, you've got to go out there and actually do something!"
The edge of the newspaper has developed a crease from its stooping these past few moments, poised in thought. And my mind is made up. I never liked the rain.
Henrietta doesn't mind, she was always so independent anyway. But not me, I needed her, and she knew. Knew, and yet the new life was calling, pulling her in like the Siren's song outside, pulling her further from me and closer towards the Son. One last curious glance, one last smile, and she opens the door.
Swirling, raging, tumults of rage! And who knew that waves could have such an impact? As quickly as she had turned back, she had been borne away. Too surprised by this fluxation in the tides of time to even cry out, lost in the deluge of suspicious looks and icy words and beautiful, beautiful truths I could never bring myself to say. And only I am left, sopping and shivering on the kitchen floor, piecing them together with cutouts from this morning's newspaper.
In dreams she comes, in memories of dreams. We sit, resolute, watching the sun rise over the island I've created. Dawn is breaking over the plains; those plain plains stretching out into the distance. And we are alone- together, but desperately divided- separated on two different planes of existence.
And we were alone- together, but desperately divided- separated on two different planes of existence.
I don't believe in the future, the future holds nothing for me. And I don't put much stock in things that don't reap much of a reward. I'm not too fond of the past, either, but still I must confess myself consumed by an overwhelming obsession with the things which have been. Things that went right, things that went wrong... So many things... So little time in life to replay life, to play and pause and manipulate those fragments of life until you've created something so incredibly fantastic that you have to believe it is true. I try to remember the details, but the edited film is so much more entertaining. No gray areas to sift through, no endless monotony of sky and sea and those horrible, horrible plains. Just hills; hills and plateaus and mountains, mountains, mountains! Mountains breaking through the gray sky surface, penetrating the depths of the ocean, causing a rift in the great glassy plate as it shatters on the rock.
A young boy is paddling over his reflection, tracing intricate, overlapping patterns in time. His name is Odysseus. He is my son. And little can he fathom that many fathoms on he will reach the lair of Scylla, and that, being one man, his body will be ripped into six, so that he may soothe the insatiable appetite of each undulating corpus. If he is lucky, he will pass her by and meet with with Charybdis instead; but for now he dreams only of Calypso, far, far away. And as he paddles, he fades- fades into the obscurity which is the fate all dreams face. Maybe if they drift far enough they do reach Ogygia. I do not know.
I am reading the newspaper with Henrietta today. She says, "Let's go to the beach." But the beach is always so crowded and besides, it looks like rain.
Outside, the Sirens are wailing, and Odysseus is flailing his head in a most horrific protest.
Henrietta doesn't mind; the is glossed head to toe with synthetic polymers; gleaming plastic coat and tote and goulashes...
His hands are raised.
Her spirit is soaring.
"Life is giving way to adventure! You cannot hide behind words for the rest of your life, you've got to go out there and actually do something!"
The edge of the newspaper has developed a crease from its stooping these past few moments, poised in thought. And my mind is made up. I never liked the rain.
Henrietta doesn't mind, she was always so independent anyway. But not me, I needed her, and she knew. Knew, and yet the new life was calling, pulling her in like the Siren's song outside, pulling her further from me and closer towards the Son. One last curious glance, one last smile, and she opens the door.
Swirling, raging, tumults of rage! And who knew that waves could have such an impact? As quickly as she had turned back, she had been borne away. Too surprised by this fluxation in the tides of time to even cry out, lost in the deluge of suspicious looks and icy words and beautiful, beautiful truths I could never bring myself to say. And only I am left, sopping and shivering on the kitchen floor, piecing them together with cutouts from this morning's newspaper.
In dreams she comes, in memories of dreams. We sit, resolute, watching the sun rise over the island I've created. Dawn is breaking over the plains; those plain plains stretching out into the distance. And we are alone- together, but desperately divided- separated on two different planes of existence.
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