I saw her, a beast.
She had eyes bathed in fire; a fear, a corrosion burned in her dark, dilated pupils.
Ah, and I, a fool, beckoned by that quiet, celestial greatness.
A passion? A Love? Self-destruction? And who is to know what consumed those eyes.
They burned. Only that moment existed; and nothing more. Only then, I existed with her, inside her.
I cannot tell you now, for time has crumbled away… All I could see was her reflection. A moth, to a flame; I always, helpless. And when she told me, “I will show you reality,” I followed. She took my hand with a smirk, and showed me garlands of pink and white, of magic and beauty; she sat me on thrones of water, sung lullabies of sparkling breezes in autumn and spring. She sang!
Oh yes, she sang like a goddess; a nymph reborn under human disguises. Ah, but she could scream. Ah, could she scream! Her rage, her passion burned her compassion. She would stand, cold, helpless, drowned in her own greatness. And then she would say:
“The hole, it has deepened.” That hole! Oh, your obsession.
I came along, on her voyages of madness. When the hole, hungry, vengeful, burned pain in her heart; her inexistent, immense heart. Too grand perhaps, to be filled with the nothingness of love; She never loved me. She never loved a child! But Life, she loved with the mightiness of flowers and of trees.
When I pleaded, when I pleased her, when I obeyed, when I cried or laughed, when simply I existed, she would creep away to darkness better suited for her company. She would say:
“Everything disgusts me.” Her look was empty, lost; and then, in a moment, it would turn to the contempt of a child.
She didn’t want to listen. She didn’t want words. She never wanted thoughts. She heard the wind. She heard the closing of doors, of feet on the pavement. And her eyes would illuminate with that endless fire; that burning of impossibility.
But say ‘hello’, and she would cringe away, or strike you with fury.
‘How dare you!’ she would say, and forfeit talk for a day.
She was in Love. Always, in Love.
She would only speak to the mirror with tenderness. She worshiped herself; but with a sincerity which broke all bounds of traditional love. No, you could not call her vain. Oh no, she spent no time constructing masks of beauty. No, she broke through the mirror; she shattered through those veils; she kissed herself, in many a nights of passion, of sleepless ecstasy. She was content with herself alone; she would have no other.
Fruitlessly, I have tried! She sees only disciples in others; the thrill of opening eyes fills her with the delight of game; that, and nothing more. No, she sees no one else. All, in their place, but none in her palace.
I shudder now, to think! Her heart, blackness in a rainbow of color. I have seen days, gray, even in the sunniest of summers, where she would seek nothing, will nothing, love nothing. Emptiness filled her disgust; for weeks, she would not eat, not speak; sit, in bleakness, and soak in her infinite delusions.
Oh, but she was always consumed by the shadows; she was a devil! She would say: “Let us be in nakedness, at once! Forge gold from water; drink our suppressions with afternoon tea.” She would look bewildered at my lack of understanding; then, submissive rage, then the depth of bitter sadness. She would never offer explanation, nor I, even willing, would have understood. And who could have?
I nodded, and followed. But where to, neither knew. She was stumbling, screaming, in a desert. And I? A grain of sand in the creases of her dress.
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