The Mid(h)as Touch

In Greek mythology Midas is popularly remembered for his ability to turn anything he touched into gold: the "Midas touch".

Thursday, July 10, 2008

Sequel

My heart beats fast and then faster still as it tries to outrun time itself and then all of a sudden it stops or at least it seems to, maybe the futility of his pursuit dawned on him. I run around the room like a caged animal, fervently trying to revive it.

Hahahahahahahahahahhhahaheheheheeheheheheehehahuhauhauhahu

I stop to ponder the paradox and it beats again. We come back to square one, a circle so unendingly vicious and so endearingly fascinating. I study my face closely in the mirror, examine every expression watch myself fall back in slow motion and press replay, trying to take my mind off my heart and its antics. But it’s not really about that, is it? It’s about death as it has always been. Death makes angels of us all and gives us wings as smooth as Raven’s claws. But I don’t want to die at 27 let alone 21, there is just too much to see, too much to learn and too many people to meet. I wonder if it’s worth taking the mother-ship down with me, but just as I was going to baby Jesus shows up at my door. He brings news of the other wise men and insists that we must leave. As I step out I hear sobs reminding me of the presence of death, so near, maybe it missed by a couple of hundred feet. If it seems to be real its illusion, unfortunately it seemed more like an illusion.

I feel a star die as I walk. I examine the familiar streets with the eagerness of an alien. We are joined by another, the three wise men now, wait wasn’t there baby Jesus, does it really matter? The rest was an unfamiliar well rehearsed routine. As I walked back in the last remaining light of dusk, I realized that the star that died was within me and now it was a raging black hole, ready to suck all matter into its depth. I fed it whatever I could find and returned to sate of numbness. Phlegmatic as I could be I amused myself with the stupidity of kings.

Above all mountains known to man, above all the paradoxical heights around a circular planet, at this the highest point there are no stars only a warm cradle like open arms and a distant sound coming through in waves

Bam, bam bhole