The other day I felt it. It was right before me. My fingers were running along the hard, porous surface of some strangers' walls, and it was its face. My nose was overwhelmed with the cold smell of burnt grass, and it was its perfume. My eyes were blinded by a vaporous light, and it was its skin. I was floating behind a glazed window.
For the first time in a long, long time, I was filled with bliss. I did not look further back than forth. I did not let myself go. For the first time in a long, long time, I could see the other side.
There are two ways to step into life. Only one is real.
The first is what happened to me in another time.
I fell into it. I took a step forward and there I was. I took that step because there was no other way: the youth in my cells had built solid blinkers. Once I had entered, I went from mystery to mystery with no halt. But I made a costly mistake: I was pretentious enough to believe that it was I who had fashioned the blinkers, to my taste. Yes, I thought, I killed a cow, I rubbed its bare skin in organic matters and I sewed the pieces together to form two patches. Along the way, with the fresh feel of novelty wearing off, holes began to appear. You cannot see the other side without contrast: the bubble swimmed back up to the surface with terrifying speed and deflated in a flash. The glass had acquired an opacity which flattened light and my optic nerve only conveyed memories.
The second way is the hardest. You must be one and three.
I want to choose the second way. I want to make blinkers out of clear glass.
© asd – 2009
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