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Bleeding Out in Eternity
An old box fan infiltrates the abyss of a silent world. A darkness fills the room thicker than light. It is a miracle a hand can slice through it; a body's breathing chest is not smothered by the weight of an infinite black box. In pitch nothingness a twelve by fifteen-foot room becomes an endless expanse. A wall not felt of by a human hand must not be there.
It is everything for an imagination, covered in black. It is sex, and it is sand; It is if, and it is and--just beyond the fingertips. Yes, time could stop here if it wasn't for the red neon numbers in the distance. Too tired to unplug it, I am always its slave. Too conscious to forget it is there, I fear it will beckon, "AWAKE!" I fear the light will come in and disturb eternity.
It is sex, and it is sand; It is if, and it is and--just beyond the fingertips.
The fan groans, it blows upon my skin, and the warm wetness covers my soul; makes it shiver. The tin of it shakes to my annoyance. It is missing a left foot. Off kilter, it must have been moved from its position atop a dictionary. It is a shame it can be heard. It makes it harder to be everywhere at once. Remembering it is beside me is as bad as light. For with something beside you there must be distance, there must be an end, and again there is time, 5:40 on a clock, not accurate any longer, 5:41. It is so cold. To turn it all off, I am far too tired for that.
I don’t know if 5:42 will come. It is inferred. I can't imagine anything else when the changing numbers are all I can see.
The blue comforter must be a mess in all the moistness. Ah, but it does not have to be blue. It has to be wet. I can feel it is soaked, and somewhere up in the sky there is an angel. I can see her. “Why must this dark world be so cold and wet--so filled with distractions?” No answer. 5:45, the last three slipped me by. Is it a clock, or is it God? Is it an equation for me to give order to? Forty-five divided by five is nine. 5:46, the proof no longer holds true.
...and somewhere up in the sky there is an angel. I can see her.
There are approximately two seconds between each rumble of the fan. Six and four are ten; divided by five is two. Two is equal to the intervals of annoying metallic grunts I hear beside me. Then dividing those I have one. You can't go any farther than that with it. It must be the meaning of life in my dark universe. 5:47, it isn't anymore. Damn this is hard! Stupid clock! Why does it change? If I could turn it off, If I could turn off the fan I would have zero. If I could do that, I would be God.
If I could do that, I would be God.
But to try, I am so cold and wet. The fan sounds close. How close is it? It could be miles away. I'd never survive the walk. The light, the speed of light is said to be the fasted thing there is in another universe I once knew. It could be faster here. It could be slower. I might be able to reach it with my outstretched hand. It might come from the farthest expanses of heaven. It could burn the flesh to touch it. It may poison my body with snake venom. I'm not God. God would never be as tired as this.
I expected 5:48 to come. It has not. Instead a single red sphere inhabits space three inches or a million light years away. How odd to see it flicker off and on. It warms my ice-cold skin. The rumble has stopped all together on its own. Silence and the light burns out.
Silence and the light burns out.