A Nighttimed Story

shela opened herself to the night moon vibration, that pulling hum that yearns at the sea, beats at the land, trembles the edges like an amorphous thing. a thing. an alien is what she felt like. something reaching out across deep and silent depths and touching her face, sliding wetly over it, through it, her skin, her body unsure as to whether this was ecstasy or pain. her boundaries being continuously penetrated. shela decided, seeing only death in walls, in antagonism, secrets, gossip preventing the alternate reality of a parallel universe, that she would open herself to the night.
that she would let the sea travel through her like a conductor, the energy flowing through her and shining somewhere far away, timeless. she would be in the middle, shifting, always shifting, first one thing then another, disappearing and suddenly popping up surprisingly out of invisibility like a zit in the night. she would be passively disruptive. she would make the line dance like a lucid burst of static, like the shining randomness of a rain drop dance on the window, streaking down, making the night into a warm heaviness, a weighted unintelligible word singing subconsciously through your bones as you hide sheltered in light.
shela became a tentacle of unseen force, waving supple leaves in the whimsy of the wind. bending rippling cells of passing light, her breath never caught.
you won’t find shela in your history books, although she is the mother of all coming moments. from her sacrifice of self to love something she could never be she comes to be everything, caught up in the infinite movements of the universe. she is divine, because she is exactly a point in space, solidly an object of time, yet she could not be placed on any scale and measured. she is something that comes and goes, but stays with you forever.
so when she knocks on my door at night, come to call me out of the bed of my dreams, i throw away all my past, and i take her into my lungs. and when she is gone suddenly, i settle back into myself and remake the sheets. she is not mine. she is something i am grateful to touch. i know that i live in a different world. i know that when she comes everything changes. i know that nothing is certain. i know that i need to live.


Author: manderson

I live in NYC.

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