he used to buy me strawberries.
this very short piece of story is not about love.
it is about some cropped,chilly fragment of austere and thrilling rapture.
it is about a faint smile and a bag of strawberries and emotions stired within a breast.
it is about gibbering when the bag went from one pair of hands towards another pair of hands.
it is about the quandary begging the question whether to wash or not to wash the content of the bag before eating.
it is about a "thank you" which found no reverberation,for sounds cannot propagate into vacuum.
it is about about one feeling aggrieved for not having received anything but strawberries.
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. . . I must have lost consciousness briefly. Or, there was no transition. The next thing I experienced was the feeling of my stretching grin extending outside of my face, or, beyond the borders of what I have learned to experience as my face. Was there a ripping sound? Was there a painful feeling of pins and needles, a feeling of the skin being stretched beyond what is normal? I was laying on my back, on the bed, and the right half of my body was being stretched out and somehow below me. The left half of my body was being pulled up and out. The vaulted arch of our ceiling opened up, and a Caucasian man, with a hat like a bowler, leaned down to his right, down to the brown leg of his slacks. He looked at me, from what seemed nearly a hundred feet, and said, "It's time to go now," and began moving his right leg forward in a step. As his right leg swung forward, my body was merging into his pant leg, below his knee, this part of his body being as tall as I am. Rather, most of my body was being pulled into his leg. My neck, arms, and head were being dragged forward as the bed was being stretched. The visual experience was as if the world, including my body and all that I saw, had become flat, two-dimensional, and was a sheet, or a thin rubber skin, a layer. As the pulling forward and out was taking place, the colored forms of what I saw were smeared, as if a running palette of colors, pulled, stretched, thinned. I pulled back, wondering if I could pull away from this tearing of the world. ‘It's time to go now.' My body and the world as I knew it, was being pulled into the black universe, stars studding the space, while the outline of this man was covered with the "being pulled", "smeared" reality, of which I was an integral part. • I was stunned, frightened, disbelieving. I think it hurt, but even more painful was the idea that ‘This was it.' My mind began trying to sort out what had happened. [ . . . ] My wife later told me I was staring in disbelief around me and at my body and saying ‘It's smeared, it's smearing. It's the universe. We are moving into the universe, it's ending.' I looked carefully at my left forearm and hand. I saw the transition between my flesh, and tiny bubbles of color, streaming upward and outward into the pulling canvas of matter. My legs were doing the same thing, as was the entire room. ‘It's time to go now.' • The sense continued, hammering. I felt, but did not think, ‘No, I'm not ready. There is so much undone, unfelt, unsaid.' I felt I should have been better warned or prepared. [ . . . ] I wondered about the plant from which this material was derived. Is this the reason for the plant's existence? To mediate the ending of the universe? • To one of my requests for reassurance my wife said ‘It's happening, relax, lay back in bed.' I'd been twisting and turning, trying to move away from the dissolving edge. I said to my wife ‘If this is how it ends, I ought to just relax. I will miss you, I'm glad we met. Please lay by my side so we can go out together.' She lay down next to me and I kissed her forehead. She then lay across my chest, enveloping me with her body. I felt her love, and felt we were ending together. I felt us both merging with the edges of the end, and felt my body merging more fully with the sheet of reality that we were becoming. • Some moments later I opened my eyes again, and felt the ripping and pulling diminishing. I looked up and saw that the ceiling was beginning to congeal around a well-demarcated line. I looked at my left hand and saw there was an irregular line, curving in the same pattern as that of the ceiling. My hand was slowly filling in with substance again...
I have fallen in love with you, and I don't even know your name... Is it possible to fall in love with the idea of someone? I am captivated by your beautiful mind, respectfully.
It is a pleasure to have stumbled upon your writings.
quite interesting post. I would love to follow you on twitter.
thanks a lot! unfortunately,i don't have a twitter account, you can find me on facebook though! chhers!
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