If only those hands could talk.
Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit. Maybe weāll be laughing about even these things in the futureā¦
The slogan should spur Eden to build a brave new world, brick by brick, but it doesnāt. People are hopeless. They endow magnates and bankrupt those who pay it forward. Those who are least inclined to venture beyond are those who pursue dead ends. Everyone yearns for success, but they make the same mistakes.
Eden knows that nothing changes. All remains as before. Each fate curls the next. Like blood, it threads people together. It is a gnarled likeness they strive to unknot.
ā¦
āI canāt remember the last time Iāve wanted someone like I want you.ā
No one likes Eden.
Sheās always known it.
She knows more when she eyes the labourers along the wharf.
The breeze carries a lick of saltwater over the pier. Shelled wood planks cleave to a sandy dock that was once a rainbow of varnished hues. Most know itās seen better days. Some reside in the old shacks along the shoreline. Seldom flourish although their planters harbour trinkets and marigolds.
Eden knows these strangers well. They despise change. They internalize the shame that emerges from contempt and constraint as a way to evince their righteousness.
Always raving about the good olāā¦
Fire doesnāt create. Fire bares the ghosts within.
When Eden was eighteen, her uncle told her countless tales of life in the desert. He lived there for many years. Perfect, he said, because the people there had inhibitions. People in the rest of the world never think twice to share. To think everything, every place, everyone can be shared. They enter with a sense of purpose and possession.
Give.
Take.
Hide.
Bare.
No matter the faith or indecision, one strives to enter another. They lack independence as much as conviction. Far from orderly or enlightened, they idle together within dark, tender cradles of filth.
āThose people insist uponā¦
Zara hates mornings. All the same, she figures she should be grateful for them. Itās impossible to know what you love if you donāt know what you hate.
And, Zara loves the night. Thatās when time trickles onward into lurid numerals, and the city comes alive with luminous panes and pleasures which echo the stars. Then, Zara stills and basks in the silhouette of her lamplights. Thereās something about the hallowed glow they cast. It reminds her of a theatre. It drew her in long before she majored in film studies. Long before she fast tracked her degrees. Zara believesā¦
Tonight, she craves a womanās touch.
Lola has wide hips, legs overshadowed by voluminous thighs; and a heart ribbed within a cage affixed to a column that snakes to her posterior. Every crook and crevice is alight with a flare as high as noon: incisive and wakeful by day as the moon keeps her secrets.
Lola canāt keep count. She is a liar whose eyes eclipse her face. But their smoky depths only betray her when they meet likewise.
Sometimes at the bar, sometimes by the docks.
Tremors part and probe within, not unlike the schooners which anchor once they cleave the waves.
Sometimes a curiousā¦
