The Profundity of Rapture
Here is a story that tells itself from time to time. Its title is Eman. Eman is not afraid to create. Please don't rob this realm of her sacred texts. - E.A.
I try to think in colors
To create reverberations
In the mind
But I only succeed
In making muddy rings
In the ocean
Tortured and high
Ceaselessly
The summer is the cruelest
With indiscriminate sunlight intent upon ensnaring you
Taking you into a simmering space of peaceful ignorance
My resistance burns more than falling asleep in its searing palm
It’s impractical, silly
How dark
You and I are
But I’ve never been one for pragmatism
Oh to be a dissolvable tablet
In this maddening concoction
In this scraping, trashing surf
In this maroon whirlpool of everyone’s everything
The ease
The golden liquidity of such a life
Or to remain within an egg
A firm yolk
Encapsulated by the viscous gel of stability
And a shell of impenetrability
The deathlessness of this house
Is remarkable and more melancholic
Than the presence of death itself
At least there is rest in the latter
I saw a child
Hiding in cotton sheets
That’s all that I want to do
All day
I need to lie down all the time
It’s like I’m sick
I sent them all off
Because I have pronounced that there is only one savior
And none of them are her
But I should have asked them back
Kept them around
While I find that someone to burn
I can’t stop laughing. My feet don’t touch the ground on this toilet.
That night has melted
into the darkness
of my coffee pot
now.
I sip the bitterness and smile,
thinking about the singularity
of people
possessed at times.
I’m one of the few girls in college who has breasts; most have the boob, I’ve learned.
(I COULD NOT FIND THIS PHENOMENON ON THE GOOGLE. WHY IS THIS SO?)
I’m having such a good time living that no one has to know.
