Friday, October 18, 2013

Toti O'Brien

This could be my last encounter with monster, I feel. For he never came closer: and yet I’ve no fear.

He’s arrived, as usual, during afternoon nap…  a small pause, when I left my doors open, both literally and metaphorically. Was I daring or was I just oblivious? Well, I was distracted, that’s all.

I felt him lie behind me, then holding and hugging me as if I was his toy. Yes, he acts like a master… but so weak indeed: alive only by grace of my imagination. My unconscious is his funnel, his bridge.

I say “him” for he’s male, of age undefined. The same always… I can’t see him but I recognize him. I can’t see him: he grabs my wrists from the back, as if he could tie me down that way. That, apparently, gives him a childish joy… go for it, I don’t care.

I can feel him and that sends chills through my spine. Today, though, I’m not scared.

Now, the radio is playing a compilation of songs. Quite nostalgic, and they don’t give us a break. So we listen, together, as if they were telling our story, those songs. Yes, the story of the two of us, monster and I… as if we were long lovers. Oh dear...

I want to turn my head and to face him. That, alas, I could never: it’s not easy. Today I know I will,  I’ll identify him, this time. This time he won’t escape, no.

I free myself with a jerk… and it’s me, now, who grabs his wrists. But I’m left with two stubs in my hands: two small puppet arms… the rest of him vanished. A metamorphosis, all right: that is all he can do! Such a coward…

Look! Two small spheres are rolling down the bed. Like two pearls or maybe two cells, moved by an inner energy. He’s dissolving, I guess. Just against the wall, where the blankets bunch up and folds, there’s a creepy whirlpool of bugs: something is going on. Where is he? He’s gone.

Still he came so darn close, more than ever… I know that he loves me in his way. Yes he does: I’m his Styx and his Charon, I’m his human shore.

But how did this all happen? Since when do we spend together my solitudes, since when does his immaterial weight bend my spine?

Why do I call him my soul, or my angel, if he’s just a rough Frankenstein, badly wrought?

He’s a gush of summer, a drip of my sweat. He’s a joke of my memory. Just a dream.

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