Tuesday, July 29, 2003

It’s been over a year since I heard the song, that song someone once said was meant for me, its rousing melodies a confident declaration of devotion. As each note and lyric spiraled deeper into me, the way frothing stars and systems implode in black holes, I couldn’t escape remembering again – a voice, a touch, a glance – the magic that was silent in its omnipotence. It has become my poison, the magic and its song, ichor black against the veil of the cosmos, and I’ve spoke every available incant to dispel it.

Though there have been small victories, futility reigns in my attempts to free myself, and I’ve sought the comfort of too many puffs of smoke and gulps of caffeine in finding answers. The song has brought me to the attic of some murky past, the ballroom of throwaway days, and I’ve been driven mad in search of an exit. There may be light but there is no window, not even a breath of passage to or from anywhere outside.

So I sit at the center of the musky attic, of the splendid ballroom, scratching the floor absent-mindedly while the song plays over and over, sending dust and curtains flying gracefully in acid air. And I sing along with it, hearing the voice, feeling the touch, drinking the glance, tasting its poison, praying that the song would tire and resort to whispers before gliding off with a passage in its wake.

I wonder how long forever would take.

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