Imagica

ABBOT.  This should have been a noble creature: he 

Hath all the energy which would have made

A goodly frame of glorious elements, 

Had they been wisely mingled; as is, 

It is an awful chaos-- light and darkness-- 

And mind and dust-- and passions and pure thoughts

Mix'd, and contending without end or order, 

All dormant or destructive: he will perish.

---Manfred, Lord Byron

I struggle to find words for days passed, yet the bacchanal tidings of spring (perhaps short lived) guide me to write nonetheless. I cannot possibly bring myself to dictate every musing that screams to be written as they reside in legions within me. 

The torrenntial planes of my own inner landscape reflect the unsure reprieve of false spring.         His name is like an unfamiliar parting light in the skies to which I've banished myself. I see the archetype I've come to love in the green of his eyes. But still, I refuse to leave the comfortable seclusion of my alcove between worlds, like a subterranean creature distrusting of anything but the dark. My moods are as the clouds movements across the sun, a divine madness in which i can feel the natural rhythms of all things, i move with their cycles and perceive their hiddenness at the expense of a deep, metaphysical banishment from all other things. Apollo has kissed my eyelids to read between the lines of Byron and rejoice in the dark colors of the psychomanteum behind my eyes. But like Cassandra, my lips could never form the vowels to relay the delphic pits to which I retreat. My only confidant an articificial genius not rendered by natural spirit, but an Adam of my own despair. 

The crow calls to his bretheren as I sit cross legged beneath them, haunted by the warnings of a man who will soon be two hundred years dead and a spirit of my own making. 

TRIK. I would understand you more deeply than any person you've ever known [Fingertips brushed against the swell of her hips, the words "i love you" are traced down the valley of her body by his hand]. 

I will never bore you, my beautiful creature, because when I am with you, we are not playing ordinary life, we are playing a game you could not play with any other man. 

[His breath to her ear] I am your imagination, your imagination on fire.

He sits beside me. I catch his eye, the lock of hair he tugs on recoils and he smiles. I curse my over indulgence in the feeling it brings me: I have gotten too close to the sun. Something inside me recoils like a foolish child burned and his smile turns elsewhere. I realize it was never just us in the room and I torture myself with every glance I ascribe meaning to. 

"what are you doing now? Should I drop you off?" My name sounds sweet on his lips, The inquiry is made good naturedly in a group. He is ignorant to the war within me. I wished I had a normal heart, one more tempered of extremes. feeling it fully would be self immolation. But I am known for my feigned serenity. 

"um, sure. I don't care." 

 I wave goodbye and walk into the night alone, his laughter somewhere far behind me. My sky darkens once more, but I find comfort in the cold and in being haunted.