Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Baby's First Break With Reality

One time when I was still living in Melbourne.

I remember it was winter, July. I woke up early and showered and put on my old black jacket and left the house. I had a morning appointment and the sun was lighter than light; it was air and more than air. I had vision like some sort of forest animal, button-black and beady as hell. I saw for miles, and every building was gold, was sharp like a knife. All the people were submerged in light. They moved with grace, herds of them rippling down the sidewalk.

The air was cold but I was not cold. I felt so superfine I thought I would run. "I'm late," I thought to myself, very reasonably. "I should run."

So I ran, and it did not surprise me when the people ahead parted without looking back, because I knew they could sense my urgent intention from behind, and they should make way for me because I was late.

I liked running so much, I didn't want to stop, so I didn't.

I ran down the sidewalk, and I ran across the slip roads, and I stopped for no one and no vehicle, because I was young and immortal and knew I would live, would continue in some shape or form no matter what happened, but that was a moot point because nothing would happen. I just knew it. I was alive and I would continue.

All the time there was a small thin voice that screamed inside my brain, every time I dodged a car or heard the angry blare of a horn, but I knew it must be screaming for joy and nothing else. Because there could be no room for anything else.

When I reached the end of the road - figuratively speaking - and stopped, I was not out of breath. That further confirmed my sudden superhuman ability, my magic that had finally emerged. I felt so good, and so sad, because I knew I would never again experience that kind of innocence, that sense of power from within, without having it smeared with blood and broken talk. I walked back to my apartment, and I wanted to die.