Don't wash your clothes in public

A Story by BeatnikCave

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The repetitive call of a flock of geese resounds through the valley basin, sharply breaking the empty silence. They fly north, leaving him with an even heavier sense of solitude. He harbored no attachments too the fleeing birds, in fact, he was entirely indifferent to them, however he was even less enamored by the world around him. He had grown numb. In body and in mind. this was the only way of understanding what pained him. All he was capable of was to stare out at the murky lake, feigning an interest in his lack luster environment. In reality though, he hardly noticed the scene. His mind was elsewhere. seated in the cinema of recollection, he observed his memories being proffered to him by the torturously detailed agent of the past. Comprehensive vividness that rendered him blind to his actual surroundings.

Leading her down the street by one hand, no, more dragging her, whilst promising her the world, and so much more.

''We own it. We can do whatever we like. Nothing will stop us, just follow my lead.'' she gave a playfully resistant tug as he picked up his pace, half skipping, half jogging down the street. She had reason to be hesitant. They'd only just met after all.

''What do you want to do? We could go for a run, or a jog, no? Climb a tree? Okay we'll go skim some stones, go for a swim, maybe tickle a trout?'' The street shone in the night, as if it were the path to enlightenment. She giggled as she matched his pace, following head first into frantic love.

''No? we could go pick some litter if worst comes to worst, help out the city... Or we could go to the casino. Raise some funds for our night. It is our night. Remember that okay?''

It had started to rain. A fine mist devoid of obvious substance, one that only lightly moistened his face. He hadn't quite realised yet. He was to engrossed in dismantling his will to live. A slight shimmer on the surface of the lake was the only evidence of precipitation. No wind blew. No trees swayed. Not even the geese sing protest anymore. He tilts his head to blankly look in the direction of the sky. Grey. A uniform grey painted the world with absolutely no gradient or discrepancies. The divine artist had painted no gaps in his depiction of no-colour. Maybe it was just the weather, Or maybe just his mind. The stunted trees and dull waters remained disenchanted. Was this a world lacking in tangibility, or just a mind unwilling to perceive it?

They met eyes. The first time they had ever crossed paths. A beautiful young woman with an elegant sense of reserve, a demeanor lathered with enigma. She gazed back with reciprocated intensity. Right there, it was settled in some synonymous court of fate. They were integrally linked, this was a certainty they both knew to be true. A devotion to eternity told by such perceiving eyes tells no lies.

''What do you think of Kierkegaard?'' He asked, with no introduction, the question was not entirely his, but instead drawn from a mutual intention.

''I think he's in all of us really, he embodies such potent analysis of the human mind, and that is timeless and true beyond compare,'' in this simple exchange an understanding had already been firmly established, ''You're the kind of weirdo who prefers his poetry, I suppose?

A breeze picked up. This was not a breeze that moved air or things of physical nature. Its direction was indeterminable, as was its destination. Black spots twisted and twirled in a queer manner, not through space or reality, but through time. Along with them they dragged the little remaining colour on their temporal journey. Movement of the world ceased. Time, Direction, place and pace all of little concern and even less discernability. He slowly stooped his vision from the sky to see death sat beside him. Death was no man, nor a physical manifestation, more of a lack of one. The parallel space beside him followed uncanny, different rules. A paragon of terror. Time flowed out of the space beside him, oozing out like hot water from a spring. It captivated and maintained dominance over the still and mortal world.

He opened his eyes to the real world. Seated opposite at a candle lit bar, they relished in the ambiance. Sharing both an intense state of content and a bowl of crispy sweet potato chips.

''Do you believe in true love? Love at first sight?'' It was unclear who had asked the question and who answered it.

''I believe that with a pure understanding, an absolute knowledge of another soul, only misery will be revealed. Sooner or later. That said this is hypothetical, of course, as absolute truths are impossible. The true joy of love lies in attempting to find these nirvana's, and seeking them out''

Satisfied, They both relax to Thelonious Monks' cover of Honeysuckle Rose, sipping sweet wine and endorsing a comfortable silence

The vacuous state of things that can no longer be called 'boy', 'bench' or 'lake' are now passed detection, and can no longer be claimed to be existent.

''I am in everything. I am time. Entropy walks down my street, bringing all things my way. Eventually,'' Death muttered, exercising an arcane obfuscation of the vowels, producing a sound more like an instrument of the most twisted fashion than a voice, ''I am not in you. Not anymore. Instead you embody me. You give me substance and power.''

Their lips met. Only briefly, but long enough to transport them to a different dimension of pleasure, a different scope of love, one that they owned and defined. He stares longingly into her eyes, runs a finger down her cheek. Standing up, no words are required. The sensitive caress had conveyed all communications needed. He heads to the bar, to order another drink, another bottle of wine. Entirely unaware of his surroundings, his feet execute his blissfully dopey minds will. The barman seems glad to see someone of such contented nature. He slips him the money, leaving a generous tip, and heads back to the table, considering a plethora of cosy futures with his love, the love to change his life on a single night.

Empty.

The table had long been vacated. Not even her glass remained. He ran out of the bar. The cold air of the street slaps him round the face, emphasising his naivete. She was gone. It was daytime. It was sunny. Startled he finds himself standing at the lake shore. Colour had returned to the world. His legs felt wobbly, his face clammy and blocked. But he could feel. He could feel the rain that started with a sudden energy and renewed vigor, The cold waves soaking him with isolation. He picks a direction and walks.

Is he still alive? This much is unclear. The only certainty is that a large part of him is missing. Consigned to the other side of the blurry partition of present and past. He walks on. Without weight or solidity, but with will.