Fiction: Buddha Bar

I love the feeling of ecstasy.  I craved it, that cozy feeling that overpowers the senses, that feeling of losing myself forever, as it was the only feeling that wards off the feeling of the blackness, the void, ever-constant tedium of living and living and living.  That was all I ever felt anymore, the gray feeling of living, not the vibrancies of emotions, or the livid shades of rage.  Living was such a lie, I scoffed to myself, forgetting I had just thought that minutes ago.  Nothing about life seemed real, not the feelings of emotional anguish, not even the ecstasy was real, but I made sure I forgot that last detail.  I made sure of it with a heavy helping of Buddha Bar brand Ubiquitous cradled in one shaking hand; a fierce feeling of resolution flooded my dull, inert brain, and I felt ready to emerge into the world fully conscious. 

I could still taste the sweet, succulent air, mint and eucalyptus flavored on Wednesdays.  My heart beat pulsed to the music of Egyptian cymbals, arid Moroccan beats, tum tum hollow drums, amid an upward windy drift that swirled sand amidst the throbbing, moving, harmony of human form.  Flesh-like dancers, twirling, swirling dervishes, faster in a whirlwind of debris, soon became Golems that danced and atrophied to sand.  Sand, which seemed to linger underneath my nails, as I reached for another spoonful of frozen Buddha Bar brand Ubiquitous.  Sand, the infinitely fine, infinitesimal stream of particles, once frozen, flowed once more like an undulating stream of a non-Newtonian river. 

“Be mindful of the streams of consciousness,” my critics seemed to say to me from the papers all in tatters on the coffee table.  “Fear not the undercurrents and the drifts and the transcendent path,” the walls seemed to lean in and whisper in my ears.  I push them all away to slurp on my drink in peace.  I gazed at the wall now.  How profound a wall.  I touched it slowly with my left pinky, marveled at the silk linings, felt astounded that I was touching the fabric of time.  Time seemed to stretch, looping round and around like a scarf, but stopped before reaching the legs.  It is now ten years ago above my neck and five minutes later in my calves.

I could not lift my head now.  I sat, slumped in the corner, hair partly braided, eyes wide open, and my face lined with sloppy red lipstick.  I wore a tattered white wedding dress that was ripped at the seams.  I was a broken marriage today.

“Where are we going?” A child asked, her hand resisting the larger hand that gripped hers.

“Be quiet, Athena, please don’t make a fuss,” was the reply.

She pointed at me, ready to burst into tears, yet adamant, “I must have my Princess Cleopatra!”

So we took off, Athena and I, by foot, in the fading heat, into the crimson setting sun.  She cradled me, and she sang to me as we made our way to Tel Aviv:

Oh, that red, red sky. 
Fly into the lines of light. 
Ever did you see the sky so bright?


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