In the Netherworld

Not necessarily in a great place tonight.

I have predicted the future on a day when we are meant to slay all psychic powers and stem all tides of intuition.  We are meant to heal by asking, and have been trained as Inquisitors to march forth with our holy books and request answers.  We are not meant to suffer in the long dark of possibility, but to elicit truth from our very fingertips and evolve societies and nations and universes as engines of forthright communication.

But yet, I have seen what will be if I arrive at your door, enrobed in my newly endowed knowledge.  And you curl away, peel off and flicker into the wind like another leaf, another plume of smoke, another dust cloud I’ve tried to trap and knot with a bow.

The story goes thus:   Boy grows up alone.  Boy spends decades alone. Boy meets girl, boy marries girl, girl breaks boy’s heart to smithereens.  Boy’s alone again.  Boy does not want to be alone. Boy finds people who like boy and like what boy has to say.  People laugh at boy’s jokes and nod at his ideas.  Boy makes friends.  Boy makes friends with a girl who laughs hard at boy’s jokes, nods at boy’s ideas, tells boy she has been alone, too.  Tells boy she likes him.  Boy thinks about first girl and pain.  Boy is kind and says yes, second girl, I like you, too.  Boy and girl talk and talk and talk and talk until there is no more talking to do.  Boy and girl sit in the dark and don’t talk for a while, just comforted and smiling.   Girl does not ask boy to leave friends for her.  Girl wants boy to leave friends for her.  Girl waits as a girl does, for a force more powerful than either of them to demand action.  Boy realizes that girl two could be girl one all over again.  Boy holds all universes in his hand.  Girl two burns like a candle.  Boy talks to Girl three and four.  Girl two tells stories and cuts her name into the wax.

The more I know I need to know, the more I know the answer is not yes.  It is a rejection. This is too much pleasure to give up for a nursemaid, for a kind offer he’s done without before.

It is less them than it is me.  It is less us than it is this charybdis that churns the seafoam and pulls the tides so gently you forget that it has been so daily fed with sailors and their earnest prows it has not needed to truly roil and gnaw.  Now we have given it a Titanic, a thousand hapless passengers with meat to spare and after such epicurean delights, a chain was pulled and a stentorian, sky-bound voice announced that it must wait a spell before another ship will dare to cross its borders.  What does it know but a tantrum?  What does it know, but to wail until it is cossetted, to shift and surge and tear tide from shore? It has no patience, no manners, no language, no kind face.  It just moans and hangs open, watery reptilian brain no sky-bound intonation has yet to coerce.  Feed me, love me, call me something good.

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