In Which I Fall Victim to the Brown Bear Twirl

Upon opening my eyes, I saw an endless sky upon endless sky.  I felt no weight, nor the blustering of terminal velocity, but only a faint warning of vertigo. I perceived no comfort in this deceptively calm descent.  Perhaps my anxiety was unfounded, because I gripped bicycle handle bars as if to steer through this freefall.  I looked behind me to see the remainder of the bicycle teetering awkwardly beneath me, like a door upon a broken hinge.  Yet, despite the lack of driving, after a short while my bicycle and I bounced gently upon a gentle green hillside.  Where, in a short distance, a brown bear, standing comically upon its hind legs, lumbered much like a man towards me.  The anthropomorphic bear had no menace about it, even as its gait overshadowed and it height towered over my being.  Without warning, the bear took hold of my handle bars and began to spin me and my ride around in a circle.  And equally suddenly, he released us and we were lifted back into the sky.

Phantom heart

A treacherous shot fired in the night: reverberating in my cochlea,

filling my eye with the most vivid dreams, painting the walls crimson; yet,

Beating softly still my organic clock,

too obstinately bleating yet for a phantom heart,

too unyielding a burden for the soul to lift,

my lamb’s essence cries for another life, in the ringing silence,

in the ubiquitous stillness, and finds the unwelcoming embrace of dispassion.

The Last Door

There is a slow madness in the perfectly pearl-colored walls that divide rooms into smaller rooms: rooms lined with corridors, corridors lined with clocks, clocks lined with the slow cadence of time.  As youth marches past opened doors that shut irreversibly behind them, one might begin to sense a very corporeal form of time – one of small wisps lingering across the threshold.  A particular youth, further along, begins to hear the siren call of the wisps behind each door.  He tries to regain entry to a locked door of an opportunity past, while behind the golden keyhole the wisps whisper softly of treasures he may never hold.  We spin the dial forward on the clock-laden walls, to find a man of lightly speckled grey who wistfully sighs as he meanders past doors never opened.  To this time, he has never pounced upon a golden time and never cherished a fleeting moment.  Towards the end of time, as denominated by our desolate halls, we have one last door.  What lies behind this door contains no time at all, no mystery, no madness; in whose absence, it contains only certainty.

 

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