My Straw

My Straw

I was worming her body with my own.
She was cold.
Of course. Every dead person is cold… I was worming her up, like usual.
– Do you know that in fact, you are dead? – I asked.
She didn’t replay, so I knew she didn’t understand. Like always: go and try, explain to one that he’s dead… It was clear to me that it’s everything but easy task. There is no “user’s manual” about that.
But – she’s so beautiful.
– I’d like you to live. – I whispered by her ear again. The wind of my whisper mildly scattered her golden-yellow hair which was falling down by her temple, pertly placed in such a manner to obstruct my whispering at reaching her ear.
– To become alive. You can do it… – again I tried, deceived by that sparkle behind my eyes, like always when I call her name in my mind.
Hope? Hope.
And it’s eternal part as a traitor. It succeeds – always – to push me forth. To keep trying, knowing that my words will go with the wind, and that ardour within my chests will brag with its glow in vain, as like I blew at it.
– You just can’t in my life like this, you know…
– Like what? – she asks. She doesn’t get it.
How can one explain to her that she’s dead? She is, though. A long time ago.
Only she doesn’t know it yet. So you go and explain it to her. And how beautiful she is – indeed!
There! There! Her eyes are steel-gray again. I knew! I knew that now or later today, her eyes will become like that. Especially today – I knew! It was cloudy today – all day long. Then; always, with the clouds above, her eyes become steel; gray as ashes turned into the prettiest crystal in the world…
A Coal and a Diamond are the same matter, you know… Only separated with eternity. Like an abyss, impassable, deep, and mystically unknown… But her eyes always succeed to bridge over that abyss – just let the sky be cloudy, and…
And now, those eyes are looking at me. Through me. Though I placed myself right there. Like always. So may they look at me, and may I sink in them like into a clear, cold lake. The fact that it is a cold one, just stirs the flames within me.
To warm her up.
To help her understand.
– I know, it isn’t easy to turn alive – I’m persuading her, me, the damned one who isn’t so sure why am I doing things I don’t have rights upon.
– But, just try it… I’m here, you know… You know I’ll help…
But her looks… Well, her looks made me change my statement again:
– At least I’ll try to help you… – Here. It’s better now. But, I was the only one who knew that… On the endings of her mouth – just for a tiny moment – a smile. Confused one.
Normal.
Afresh and again, as always.
Oh, I wish – somebody! – give me strength to give up trying…

* * *

I know, with great certainty, that she has never experienced what I have to endure with my every single rousing…
So cold the death is, like ice enslaving my chests – every time when I die, after my dream. And every escape out of my dreams, is new, repeated death of mine, after which – unfortunately – I stay alive, still alive…
And still – by her side. Again, and permanently by her, with her…
She just couldn’t be aware about it. Nor before, nor ever.
Though I died – God knows how many times. But, my body lives; it lives so persistently; maybe because of the dreams I have. Over there, everything is in order. Over there, I’m Alive. She’s Alive.
And I rouse again, and she is Dead, so I die but I stay alive to try again, again in vain, so I seek a refuge in the Dream, everything is O.K. over there, then I wake up again and die again, but – I’m still alive, and…

2018-08-21T17:24:04+00:00 June 1st, 1998|Categories: Prose, Literature, Blesok no. 03|0 Comments