|Here I stand again, at the edge of the water that will draw me under, into that world beyond my control. Sometimes I think I can avoid it, simply turn the other cheek and walk away. But the waters move around in such a pleasant spinning motion, the colors feeding upon each other. The effect is quite hypnotic and it draws me closer till my footing slips and I fall over the edge; my arms grabbing at invisible branches that might save me from the fall. My grace now something I can only claim to have as I move so awkwardly.
Why I should fight it I don’t know. Maybe it is so I can convince myself that I truly can fight it should I want to. Maybe it’s merely something I must prove to my own pride. So far Pride is not convinced by my claims, which is just as well and good I guess, one should not be held by their words but should be made to prove it by their actions. Countless times I’ve said that to a lover, whose words were the sweetest poetry and yet they treated me like a worn rag doll. Something to love and cherish for it has always been there, but soon they forget it when it is not in sight. One day I will prove it though.
The waters spin and move, flowing with their own current that is not like the coming and going of the tide. It is a steady motion that never changes, not even a fraction of an inch. The steadiness of its waves are a comfort, a safe spot to hide away in. Many times I’ve found it to be the bed I favor to sleep in.
It whispers in my ear a litany of words that make no sense but seem to express the secret of life. A string of quotes from poems and novels I can recall having read at one time or another. Each sentence strung together to form a new story, more potent for its touch of delirium.
And as I think it, there she is. With the books in her hand, taking from them the things that make sense and transferring them to her page; one page in the big book of nonsense. I can hear the rustle of the butterfly wings fluttering about, still I can not see them. They hide among the twirling color’s of the water, blending into it like the most perfect of camouflage. Her pets. I would speak to her but my heart is not in it just yet. I need to feel the comfort around me like a soft quilt made by my mother’s own hands. Feel it warm me, allow me to see the bed my body still sleeps in somewhere. Only then, in the safety of that patchwork net, can I tempt myself with her words.
I once thought the things she said were the most purest of truths. Things that only the first tribes knew. Like the color of Eve’s hair, the hue of her eyes. How tall Adam stood and what the garden smelled like. She would know the true name of God and how it felt to be alone on the Earth before the cars and cities corrupted its surface skin. She would tell me all these things in the form of a lullaby that made me feel like a cloud in the sky above. Floating aimlessly yet having purpose in my direction up there. She once offered me this.
It took time to realize that there is no reason in the stories that fall from Delirium’s lips. It is only in the learning mind that tries to find something to grasp in the nonsense: The need to find secrets, greater truths masquerading behind the babble. And God sent man away and made a babble of his tongue so that no one man knew the language of everyone. From then on man would be separated by the inability to understand one another. and there she was to help the task along. Still I love to listen to her speak in her hushed childlike tones. Still I love to hear her soft whisper singing that lullaby.
Would she have me I would never leave her side. I would reside in the haze of her world forever and a day. Because there is a comfort in feeling you know all… that your dream worlds could be real and the reality of life could not affect you. You could be the butterfly on her shoulder or you could be the crushed flower beneath her foot. All in all, everything and anything so long as your mind could see it. Lock away the nightmares in that closet hidden behind childhood memories and swallow the key like a wiggling goldfish down the pallet. Wouldn’t it be so sweet, to be purple, to be the color over the surface of a tulip? Wouldn’t it be bliss to be the juice at the center of the orange, hidden within the glowing orange meat of the fruit.? To live in Technicolor.
Before I know it I am flying high above the water. I look down at her as she looks up at me. She waves up and offers her words that find my ears. It makes no sense but I can still see something hidden within. To take a word here and place it with another word there and it all becomes clear to me. In the end we all become sky, just as a character of Barker’s wished it. To become sky…
Would she have me? Would she let me touch her just once so I could feel her? The peach fuzz of skin on her arm, the stumble on one side of her head. Would she have it? Offer me a dragonfly for desert as my stomach grumbles for attention. A cloud passes to my right and she is there. She is always there, sweetly singing delirium’s nocturne.