Cycles

January 31, 2018
By mmorac BRONZE, Buenos Aires, Other
mmorac BRONZE, Buenos Aires, Other
4 articles 0 photos 0 comments

The wind swept my hair into its gentle arms, caressing and threading it into its fingers, gently tugging, as if it was acknowledging my existence. Emir, my dog, barricaded into me and slapped me back into reality. I bent down and picked up the ball, warningly, threw it once again, intentionally inserting myself into the morning cycle. Throw. Run. Throw. Run. I am easily amused by Emir’s amusement of the simple game of Catch.

Before I disentangle myself from the ball of spit, or tennis ball, I glance at the empty metal tin that is Emir’s food bowl. My eyes stare deep into the bottom of it, my blank face reflecting back at me. Slow, carbon black ants creep along the edge of it, marching together as a whole. Going back and forth from their nest to the food bowl, scraping the very bottom of it, searching for any crumbs. Emir, in his cloud of pure joy, glances at the bowl, the thoughts of ants and crumbs flooding into the back of his mind, not even firing a neuron.

In the kitchen, I prepare my energy. Coffee, a dash of milk, 2 sugars. With this I will not fall asleep throughout the endless pool of thought, that is, my day. I scan the dirty kitchen floor, should’ve cleaned it ages ago. The rash dirt footprints are still fresh as they were 8 months ago, they are practically etched into the cold white linoleum tile. His Timberland boots never leave my mind. And them walking out my door is the memory that never seems to tire of repeating itself.

My robe and morning slippers hug me, almost as much as my bed does. They are the true companions, who needs the “We will always be here for you,” speech when you can have the daily dose of Advil and hours in the same tangled mess of sheets. They hug you and embrace you, sinking you deeper into the depth of your unconscious where your memories and fantasies mix. Your mistakes become your worst nightmare, and your illusions become the excitement of your day.

Blurs of green and purple flash outside my window, the colors fading into the evergreen puzzle that fills the view; distracting me once again. The hummingbird’s wings move 80 beats per second, my heart pounding just as fast. It moves from flower to flower, its elongated beak pricks along the trumpet of the honeysuckle, seeping in the energy that allows for the bird to sustain itself. It moves in a cycle, fiercely inserting itself into the deep task of pollinating.

Two summers ago, I sat at the end of his pickup truck. Red and gleaming, shiny as the sun does once it rises off the lake into the electric blue sky. My eyes fall on his, and my heart soars, touching, just grazing heaven. His clear as day voice surrounds me as if I was floating in golden honey. His touch sends electric currents through my veins, speeding up my adrenaline, leaving the blood pumping in my ears. The sun would bake my browning skin from morning to afternoon, its cycle never seeming to faze me. Sunrise. Sunset. Sunrise. Sunset. Yet now, I think of the sun’s boring sequence, and it astounds me to be stuck in the same.

“What is he up to?” I ask, my question filling the void of silence in the room. Unsteady eyes, glance at every object in the room, except me. Lips curl into forced smiles and they form the words, “Nothing, important really.”. I had picked up a gun and shot the white elephant in the room, but certainly, it wasn't enough.

Wine and the moon become my night companion, they are almost enough to fill the shallow yet painful other side of the bed. My own expectations are enough to chain me to the dark well that holds me tightly as I slip between awakeness and sleep.

In a fit of rage and exhaustion, I yelled at them, “What does this all mean? Are we all meant to have a purpose?”. Do we? Must we? Why are we as humans so evil to one another? Blank faces, blank stares, and blank minds were returned to me. I realized that my words were just bouncing off them like one would bounce a basketball against the hard floor.

Emir nuzzled his way back under my arm. His body heat radiating towards me, trying to fill the cold auditorium of emptiness between my chest. He didn't seem to be displeased that we did the exact same thing that we did yesterday.


The author's comments:

This piece was inspired by Annie Dillard's Death of a Moth. I was also inspired by Virginia Woolf's stream of consciousness style. 


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