Parousia: Narrator’s Reproach

Painting by Vladimir Kush

I told you I’d come again, so don’t act surprised.  I save you to save me, so if you think this a selfless deed, you are outrageously mistaken.  There are no surroundings here, so it’s about time you snap out of your aloof body and get with it.  Always wanting more, if I say a leaf brushed his face, your ego goes searching for the number of veins.  What difference does it make, tell me, what pronouns we use here or there?  In the end, as you know from your Holy Book, that from cover to cover it’s all a song.  I’ll be A, you B flat, and he is C minus, barely making the grade, but with brains enough to realize a song from a salt-and-pepper shaker.  We will make one delicious soup, don’t you know?  But make sure you add the croutons, if you’ve picked up any along the way.  Dump them into the cauldron and all of those precious words and memories will melt into something tangible.  Something to gather with a ladle.  I have long grown weary of this position here looking down, not tasting anything since the ten-thousand Buddhas of the world arose, left their caves and imprints to the old world, a stratified shadow; the sediment became quartz crystal, and the time that passed only you can tell.  I wish you’d throw me a pine cone to chew on or a spruce beetle to play during your long sleeps and don’t need me.  You never knew I needed you, did you?  Did he?  Did I?  I lied, but only next to you, just once to see if I can stir your tomato soupy dreams.  But you, I, oh, it’s been too far away from whence we had stirred and rose in sync to one another’s ripples.  Now is the moment.  Now, I lie no more and stand to face you in the eyes and confess a love he has not dared to imagine until this point.  Here is where you get to the peak of this ever-rising mountain.  But here you keep rising into the sky, like he has always dreamed of.  Here you go forth from the page and see it all in your real world.  You fool, thinks your protagonist while brandishing a banana peel for a loin cloth, leaving hardly any space for the imagination to make innocent yet poignant pictures at an Exhibition-with-a-capital-E.  You stole my freedom! But did I, for can anyone ever actually change, much less take the only gift we can ever call our own?  I am dressed and I address, as I please, because I have my gift, and one of these is all I’ll ever need.  Can’t you, won’t you see the truth?  Tell me how the story goes.  Tell me how your story goes.  Tell me…


One comment

  1. cindy knoke · January 22, 2017

    My story goes like yours.

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