Owning Deception

N.B. This is the moment of intimacy I started recording in hush, though it is obviously longer than 50 words. I was curious as to what would happen/how I would trigger what was supposed to happen in the game. This was originally written in the autumn of 2007.

Our minutes of fame are extended across posters blazing our faces' imprints into the minds of those fearful enough to notice--wanted: for crimes against time. Denying fact and truth their weight and watchful gaze, the nights became subterfuge. We invented a pocket universe, escaping into the folds of a few select eyes, and absconding from all but the most superficial light. Whispers became shouts of recognition, explanation, and pleading in a frenzied all together too quick moment only drawn into the longer awkwardness of pause and reflection. What does one say next?

Or does one say next? Looking, it became clear to say nothing stretched those seconds we palmed to paint the distance between us physically with hands and faces held in check. We'd borrowed it for art's sake, though every artist has a reason. Painfully protracting the silence to obscene measures so as to barely stand before limitation while creating inhalation of sharp, sudden, shallow breath and wild, frenzying elation. Shortening the distance. And, of course, our pigments flew their own course, no longer needed for our canvas.

Seconds, minutes, hours fled in a burst of our carelessness. Deciding against their hue, we painted our own niche called memory--an ever present enemy of time marching forward.

So the posters stand, waiting to be buried by the next wave of enthusiasts so foolish.

A la Mond

A late night encounter with Gibbous form left pondering, passing, pilfering thoughts at my feet, grounded in practicality, away from the lofty heights of the sky. Staring up at this hunchbacked figure, it became apparent that my attentions were on more earthbound matter, thus robbing Gibbous of her symbolism, and realizing she is no more than the glow of another star; a waiting figure to my eye and imagination.

Recognition of the longing for desire left the possibility of such in perilous chance, recognizing the mere fact that the yearning for possibility outweighed the probability of fact, and the clear hypothesis one should reach upon given events. Gibbous's form granted laughter through sifting thoughts, lunacy being but a guise to pardon illogical motions whose outcome is all too logical in the ever-happening, never-changing ebb and flow.

Defined by the hopeful promise of a future, the unpardonable acts of the past became glossy with the sweat of mundanity and the chemical process of contact. Attributing a timeline that does not--shall not--exist to overlook the feet which walk forward, the head that stares at Gibbous and ponders upon what others have placed on her form.

Used for their own purposes, she has condemned men to beasts, both hunted and hunter. Drawing forth blood in both violent and natural processes, the sanguine sanity which she has apparently robbed from people only so much reverence for the processes we do not understand. Gibbous no more robs humanity than the chance encounter with perfidious lips.