I’ve never claimed to be a decent person. But I’ve always tried. And in this weak society, that is now enough. It’s not good enough, but it’s enough.
Smells of grass and pine sap, sticky on the blossoming arm hairs. Smells of tar and the feel of peeling paint on old oil drums. Such sensations and senses of an oncoming summer – I cannot help but to be far removed. To be obliterated out of this dank corridor full of echoes and dust, and to be blasted against my will. To be suddenly in the midst of an avalance, rolling through the wood, aware of the danger but never of the risk. Long after the pine sap has been scrubbed from my hair and skin, long after I have sat down and poured out the waterfall of dirt from my shoes, long after I have pressed a leaf onto my arm and watched the little white sprouts, I am still sent there – an uncommunicative messenger from the past. I still feel sharp stones in my arms from handball, crashing against the garage walls. I feel the dust in my nostrils, and the fetid smog from piss and rotten wood.
I always used to feel, as a solitary child even in the midst of crowds, that someone else was watching me. Back then, I blamed God. Now, I think it was the ghost of a present day me. I remember these times and I make the effort to be there again, at my side like the responsible parent I am certainly not.
Warm ground underneath my shoulders, and fingers sticky with sweat and anticipation through illicit panties and sore cocks crammed into desperate trousers. Kisses and throbs, everything burning, hair pulled and collars disfigured. In the dead of night they fuck. She rides him as she’s seen it done in the movies, head thrown back and gasps from brown lips. He pivots on one hand and clenches flesh at the hip. Clothes and jewellry scattered, writhing in this open secret, with a single lightning blasted tree as chaperone.
A security light illuminates them during their violent rhythm until the gasping climax. Throwing away their perceived roles, they reach the singular truth; the only moment in which they make eye contact, pupils like dark matter, eyebrows fierce and dominant. She falls onto him and they form a jigsaw piece together. They lay, still and quiet like a marble tomb, cooling down against each other’s breaths. The light blinks once and goes out allowing them privacy at last. Shavings of dry cut grass drizzle over their bodies and stick to their damp skin.
I walk the dark corridors, observing the pinprick light streaming from the doors, wishing I could go inside but careful not to intrude on a memory conceived. I smile and nod, I ignore when necessary and I switch off essentially. When the voices reach a dreadful crescendo, I’m never here. You can poke my arm, cut off my hair, insult my shoes. I can be anywhere I want to be. Imagination is freedom. History is context. The body as a vessel for the spirit. I am not owned by a deity. I am owned by everyone and everything I have ever encountered.
I need to revisit these people and remind them that I’m doing okay. They never hear me, but I hope they know.
Just as I did.