She walks so lightly, tiptoeing for fear that he hears her and thinks her too loud, uncouth. At times she ventures a fleeting glance into his eyes but he doesn’t seem to notice. The wild spiral that has slowly drawn her closer to him might have unsettled him into a dazed sense of weariness. He is always in motion, a weathervane of life’s circumstances, spontaneous and volatile. She is a slab of dense mineral, opalescent but so still, not of his world. The others are watching, pondering, so full of questions as they slouch on pleather sofas, protective and already prejudiced matter-of-factly. She almost wishes to lose the battle before even fighting it because it could be more romantic and nostalgic. She could tell him of things he has never dared imagine that might bedazzle him but that would be against the rules. She also knows that he is giving himself time which he doesn’t know he does not have. She brushes a very soft hand against his cheek, a secret goodbye and walks away from him and his life toward this strange lanky shadow down the street, ...a mere boy, ...a muse ....perhaps just a dream...

It would be hard to tell when she first noticed that she liked him. After all, like is akin to an illness, with its secret incubation span, its first symptoms and then outright fever and ailments. It does seem strange that it might have occurred at that very peculiar moment when she wished it least and as she daydreamed of a distant and unattainable serenity.
It did however take quite some time for her to see and know it.
It was nothing in particular and yet, an infinity of minute details; The way he tilted his head to one side while listening to someone speak, the way he stood so straight and tall but so thin and graceful. He sometimes was quite outspoken and spontaneous yet most often seemed lost in morose thoughts of a too serious nature. And though he was tenaciously stilted, he was also fluid and vivacious.
She could not have said whether it was his voice or his face, his eyes or his fingers that so fascinated her or if it was perhaps the sum of it all.
She accepted her like of him quite naturally, as soon as she caught herself thinking of him.
In the early afternoon, sipping green tea with honey in her sunlit kitchen, a frozen vision of him would arise out of nowhere, materializing itself in midair between the windows and the plants like an uncanny hologram. She did not think much of it but rather simply enjoyed his ethereal presence in her life. Thinking of him was soothing and not at all disturbing, rather like thinking of eating an especially elaborate and nice dish: A little exotic and sweet and sour at once, and not so colorful but subtle and with a tremendously rich after taste. Maybe like dark chocolate and wild wood strawberries, the kind one discovers in the forests of France that are so fruity and almost raspberry like yet subdued in their intense flavor.
She would wash dishes and suddenly see his silhouette dancing in the clubs or standing a little askew while speaking on his cell phone as he was staring intently at a particular spot of the pavement as if scanning for an unforeseen chasm to open that he did not wish to miss.
The like had made a cozy nest inside her heart and she could nourish it with details and smiles he might have inadvertently provided as if it was an infant entity growing slowly. She wondered if it might have been all in her head, an affection created for her own enjoyment and secret loneliness.
And, as she did ponder, little by little, her heart grew cooler.
Doubt had also made its dark lair inside of her and it fed on forgetfulness and sorrows. Slowly, it became cooler and then cold and colder still as he forgot to smile at her or even notice her. The sun was no longer laying its liquid golden fingers on the plants’ leaves that she would notice and his silhouette and gestures seemed to have become less articulate than a marionette. And though it was early Spring, the kitchen appeared somehow darker and murkier with dense shadows building spider web-like nets of obscurity.
Her heart grew so cold that it froze. And when it was so frozen it had hardened to a Crystal solidity, it burst into a million tiny fragments and slivers that lodged themselves inside her chest and into her blood stream making her more beautiful perhaps but also akin to a marble statue, lifeless and icy.

The Fashion Victim

Stitch..., stitch..., the thick curvy needle dove into the leather in a swift motion and the two flaps united in a perfect seam. Monsieur R. looked up, his face suddenly moved by a strange emotion; sentimentalism, nostalgia, fondness, perhaps all of these, merged into one. In his mind's eye, he could see Valentina smiling at him with that strange equine smile of hers, gauche but somehow charming and her eyes sparkling with some inner glee. All things considered, he thought, he might have loved Valentina, but with something of a brotherly breed, innocent and surely platonic.
The beige thread made its sinuous way through the leather, shaping it into a most exquisite corset. For this time only, he had wanted to use true whale bones, the way corsets had been built in bygone days as opposed to the nylon replacement of later decades.
The boots were already standing by the mannequin, thigh high creations of creamy smoothness with their curious rear lacing and hooks and grommets not normally used in fashion design but rather in body-piercing parlors. The hot pants were taped to the fiber glass hips of the mannequin with the embroidery of a heart on one of the rear pockets. But not the stylized heart of cartoons and lovers, instead, the beautifully accomplished stitched representation of the organ itself, its blood red hue, in contrast with the pale beige of the leather. The long opera gloves rested on the display table nearby, stuffed with silk paper to shape them perfectly. Next to them lay a glass jewelry box with several items such as gem rings and bracelets which he meant to decorate the gloves with, when the outfit was entirely completed.

* * *

The first time Monsieur R. saw Valentina, he had been in awe of her porcelain-like complexion and her onyx hair that cascaded in thick locks over her shoulders and breasts. She was not by any means beautiful with a face a little too long, a graceless nose and large lips, though her eyes were quite enticing. She was a tall girl, a little clumsy with a boyish gait, thin-limbed and the classic pear-shaped body of these females destined to breed robust children, but of the still thin variety. She had applied for the position of in-house model for fittings and had been instantly hired, along with a few other girls. Height was a prerequisite for the job as well as thinness, but facial features were completely irrelevant.
Monsieur R. had been instantly fascinated by her because she fulfilled a strange longing which he had never been able to quite explore. She had a childlike mind, a little more than a simpleton and from their initial meeting, she had placed her entire trust in him. She was completely smitten by him. Willing from the start to indulge him in platonic companionship, though she might have dreamt of a little more. He had easily convinced her of the necessity to keep their relationship secret so as not to cause any disturbance in the harmony of the atelier where he was seen as a minor deity by most of his staff.
She was aware of his interest in her and perhaps she thought that he was taking his time to appraise her justly or that he might be old-fashioned, a anachronism from a conservative and obsolete era. She allowed him to lead her in his deliberate dance of mysterious rendez-vous and late night dates.
Right from the start, Monsieur R. had encouraged her to attend to her personal beauty. He had bought her the most luxurious lotions, creams, buffing stones and brushes, scented, natural soaps and oils, sugar scrubs, salt polish, loofahs, and velvety towels, all sorts of exfoliating pastes and emollient, hydrating balms. Slowly, he had accustomed her to his patient ministrations which she accepted as the symptoms of an untold worship.
She adored him as though he was the essence of her adolescence's dreams. His lovely boyish face with almond eyes, a decisive nose and full sensuous lips, long blond curls of soft hair and the gaze of a doe. He was thin and perfectly shaped and he gave the impression of intense focus turned inward, into a wondrous world of his own making that others could only wish to get a glance of, perchance, if he ever deigned to reveal it.
When he spoke to Valentina, he never looked at her face but rather focused at her figure; her long arms, her legs, her gentle hands and most of all, he loved to stare at the peculiar insect tattoo on her mid-drift. He spoke softly, searching for perfect words which he would turn into beautiful mantras that enthralled her. He would envelop her of his green gaze and make her feel safe and..., loved.
It is true that in some peculiar way, he did love her. Though one could hardly find any notion of romance in his passion. Rather, it was fueled by the cold fire of pure esthetics, for his eyes could only see with his mind but not with his heart.
The affair had lasted barely a few weeks when, on a balmy night, he killed her. Softly, gently even, while she was asleep, with one tiny droplet of air injected into her vein. She hadn't even awakened and there was a lovely smile on her lips.
Then, delicately and most precisely, he had cut her limbs and head and carefully peeled the entire skin off her body. He had incinerated the rest in the furnace of his remote country house and buried whatever little else remained.
Then, patiently, he had scraped the last fibers off the skin with sharpened razor blades, pinned the various parts to wood planks and caressed oil and tanning lotions into them. Timelessly, he had applied layer after layer of oil to render the texture more perfect. While he concentrated on his task, he could visualize the girl as she had been when he had attended to her beauty treatments and it was now almost the same except that no flesh or muscle could alter the flawlessness of her skin. It was now absolutely perfect and taunt and somehow much more alive in his eyes than when it had covered her body.

* * *

Monsieur R. had become a famous fashion designer upon the initial shock wave his first full blown collection had induced in the media. Single-handedly, he had merged the classic severity of fetish-wear with elegantly feminine garments. His models wore frightening abstract masks, their hair transformed into sculptures that crowned lengthy bodies garbed in seemingly dangerous fabrics and designs while perched on tall stilettos, with thin legs sheathed in rubber stockings.
It was as though his women were beautifully and mysteriously deadly, the fatal Venus Flytraps of femininity, delicate but so exceedingly powerful in some occult manner that most men would never grasp and only shrink from, while being thoroughly fascinated.
For a while, he had loved the smooth consistency of rubber clinging to their limbs because he could not abide the texture, often flabby or blotchy, of natural skin. Until that is, he had met Valentina. She had been his epiphany of sort, a revelation unnoticed by his entourage. One moment he cast a glance in her direction and the next he could not look away or think of anything besides her skin. It was a strange moment when he knew that the only way his life could go on was to own that very skin all to himself.
But he did not care about the girl, about her liveliness so to speak. In his mind, anything that was not the precious envelope was gross matter to be cast away.
There had been no ethical questions of murder as he had cleverly convinced himself that art mattered more than a life as insignificant and mediocre as hers. There had been no guilt either, but an intense satisfaction, a sense of achievement as one feels when one has reaped his due reward.
The tanning process had taken him weeks, firstly because he had never done it before and had needed to educate himself thoroughly on the subject, and secondly because he had wanted to do a perfect job of it. Once that was done, he had sat at his easel, painstakingly striving to design what would do justice to the perfection of the material. He was well aware that this was his only chance at such a creation and he wanted to surpass himself.
He had kept the making of the corset for last because of his fascination with the insect tattoo that promised to make it a masterpiece. Night after night, away from inquisitive eyes, he tolled at his creation while speaking to Valentina's skin as though it was the girl herself, paying rapt attention to his every word.
Singularly, he could not find any difference because he had never really talked to the living being she once was. Neither had he ever touched a person while he was rubbing her body with lotion but only a shapely epidermis.
The insect tattoo was a shiny green and gold scarab which Monsieur R. had enhanced with special ink to make its tone more vibrant and shimmering. It stood out on the right side of the waist, a tiny bejeweled creature to which he had added onyx colored rhinestones in the place of the eyes. He had accentuated its perspective so that the insect looked more alive and almost about to crawl further up toward the breast.
He had also concealed the holes left by the nipples with gold leaf applied in a thick layer over some animal patch of leather.
Once finished, the whole thing was beautiful.
He had dressed his mannequin with it and adorned it with various jewels and was now in awe of his achievement. He kept it in his flat which was notoriously out of bound for family, friends and staff alike and everyone knew better than to try to invade his sacrosanct retreat. It had made it easy for him to conceal Valentina alive and then dead from everyone's knowledge.
At first, he had been so pleased with himself, happy to be the sole keeper of his secret but, as time passed, he longed to share his vision with the world, to reap universal acclaim for his originality and talent which he now felt could only be seen with this very piece.
He was able to hold out for quite some time but ambition and pride got the better of him and conspired to the collapse of his carelessly built empire of fame and trend.
On a fateful morning, unable to keep his lips sealed any longer, he transported the dressed mannequin to his atelier and exposed it in the midst of his latest collection.
And, to his stunned puzzlement, what greeted him were not applause and exclamations of wonder, but horrified screams of terror and disgust. All eyes were glued to the green golden scarab which all had recognized from seeing Valentina practically naked during fittings.

* * *

Monsieur R. was taken away to a quiet establishment where he is still unable to perceive the solid bars that seal the windows from the world and where he is given imaginary needles and thread to sew strange garments and wondrous fashion designs of invisible gossamer which he only can touch, and of course..., lots of medications.

What Kind of Breeze Do You Blow?

Tonight, I danced in the street, the pavement wet with new rain and clicking delightfully under my heavy soles. I spun and the world became a blur, familiar and somehow very distant though it was all around me. I'm dizzy now, the dull ache in my head creating an annoying reminder of last nights' drinking habits. I think about how I haven't smoked all day, save for one painful cigarette before I left his place; the first of the day, the one that is torturous after a night of heavy drinking and chain smoking, but an unfortunate five minutes of discomfort in order to get on with the rest of them.

I am sluggish and cold, puffing on my Marlboro. I'm not even paying attention to where I ash, as I found out later that my arm got the most of it. I am deep in thought, headphones cranked high, feet tapping and body swaying slightly to the beat all while I wait for the bus. Fuck Portland, sometimes it's too cold and it stinks in it's cleanliness. I smell the slow decomposition of lost souls becoming comfortable in their routines and slowly dieing blind, without ambition or desire for anything more in their lives than painlessness and mundane convenience. Those types of thoughts are crushing and depressing for me so I choose not to dwell and instead focus on the blurry headlights meandering in the distance or an occasional animal that scurries across the street.

Before I know it, as I am lost in my own mind, the bus arrives and I board. It's a bit steamy inside, not quite full, and it's nearly silent. I watch a man with three large shopping bags piled around him begin to nod off to sleep as soon as the bus begins to roll again. Sitting there, watching him, I feel an intense wave of fatigue sink into me and I am suddenly saturated in it's muck and mire. Oh goddamn it, I think to myself, this is gonna be a long journey home.

In all actuality, it wasn't. My mind made it so much longer because there is so much to think about these days. I am fucked up, really fucked up, and the more I admit this to myself the easier I'm finding it to release these feelings. One day I'm gonna cry about it, I keep repeating this sarcastically to my cat or the plate of food in front of me or in the mirror before I go to a clients house. One day I'm gonna cry so hard I can't breathe and I will melt into the floor and cease to exist.

Hush and Be Still

I was told that returning to the place that you are from is a bad idea, and since returning I have been inclined to agree with that piece of sensibility. While things have changed, the people have not and that is where the majority of my disappointment has come from. Perhaps, within personal perspective, things have not changed so much here as I have changed. I am far from the person I was when I left this city and I am grateful.

It's so strange to see people completely content to stand in the rain while waiting for a bus or taxi. While before I moved it would not have even phased me, as I sit in the Powell's Bookstore cafe I become amazed at myself and those others getting wet. I am amazed at their seeming oblivion to rain, and my shock to it. I am from here, I should understand, I think. I'm going to cut out the fluff-- it's unnecessary.

I'm reading Precious. It's a trite piece of uninspiring inner-city preggo-girl literature, but I find it amusing so I keep reading. Easy read, except when she says shit like 'I ain't neva ax muver fo nothin. she git welfare for MY chile!' What is that? It's like reading A Million Little Pieces, but in Ebonics. Meh.

Suddenly he's there, sitting across from me. Just like that. A little late, as warned, but right there. Oh, good! I put Precious down and he smiles. Brilliant teeth, love those teeth.

Hey, hi, small talk. Let's fast forward through the shitty-shit now-- We are at Wimpy's. I like this bar, I think he likes it, too; he requested it in his polite and non-aggressive way. Service is bad in here tonight, though. What the fuck? Who is the loud-mouthed twenty-something hipster bitch behind the bar? Never seen her before. She's wearing a shiny vintage sweater with the sleeves hiked up to her elbows and a pair of white horn-rimmed glasses. Mean bitch eyes glaring at me from behind those glasses. I don't like her accusing glares disguised as non-impressed and careless. I know she'd rather continue serving Pabst to the four people sitting at the bar, chit-chatting her and carrying on while watching the TV mounted above the bar. She knows them, doesn't know us, would rather we piss off.

Of course, I don't piss off. I never piss off, really, especially when I feel confronted. I push back, so we sat and talked for ten minutes or so until it became obvious that Bitch Bartender wasn't going to serve us shit unless we walked up to her and asked for it. Hmph! Fine.

"I.D.'s please,"

...

"'Kay, what you gonna have?"

We order Gin and Tonics, sit down and begin our discussions. Pleasant talk. Intelligent talk. I love talking to him; I enjoyed it the first time we got together. I make him laugh as much as I can because I like to see that piano-key smile and his laugh is disarming and I feel like engaging and impressing so I go for it. I'm a natural comic so this is good, easy. I feel good.

Bitch Bartender talks loud and her patrons/friends' conversations cut through ours at times. He speaks quietly, so I strain to hear him. I wish it was like before when there were only a few people in the bar and there was no horn-rimmed glasses hipster Bar Bitch to neglect us and let the tumbler glasses accumulate on the table like a pile of guilt. When we step out to have a cigarette we stand underneath my jacket and smoke. He shivers against me sometimes and I like it.

While we are out people put more glasses on our table as they leave. My jacket and bag are still in the booth, though perhaps not visible due to the poor lighting. Whatever. I'm creating my own magic tonight so I will let the little things go, I say to myself, in my head.

More drinks. I'm not drunk even though I didn't have anything to eat all day except for a little bag of gummy bears. I know it must be the bartender, or perhaps I'm alighting on something more mentally powerful than the booze and I neglect to get intoxicated by it. Well, maybe other Long Island Iced Tea will do it. It only hurts my liver to try.


"How about you get the wine, and I'll get the smokes," I say as we peruse the wine isles of a convenient store. Done deal. Paid, out the door and in search of a cab. I get us a cab because my iPhone knows all and the Radio Cab lady knows who I am due to the various corners I call her from. I laugh at this, in spite of myself. Getting picked up on corners? Irony! I laugh in spite of myself because it's funny and I'm funny and this feels good.

Soon we are at his house and in his room and I like it. Books, everywhere. Scattered on the floor, in bags, boxes, shoved into cavities along the wall and on top of various surfaces. I can smell their ages. We pour wine, drink from mismatched glasses and talk and talk and talk. I feel the wine a bit, but not as much as I usually would and we talk some more. So much talking-- more than I've talked in a very long time and I am comfortable and so I let go. I let go quickly and effortlessly and he listens to me as my lips for words of explanation and sorrow and depression and pure emotion. There are times when I feel that I should stop myself, to protect myself from something that could easily hurt me now. But, when I think of stopping and closing up a wave of depression swells in me and I know I must continue, so I do. The good, the bad, my past, present and future. I ask questions at times, but it's mostly me and he listens. I try to look at the concrete floor with the books, the shelves with the books, the chair with the books and not meet his gaze because he smiles and I get soft and watery, my tongue begins to melt and I want to tell him everything so I chance an occasional gaze when I need courage. I am opening more to him than I have to anybody else in my life. It is a little exhausting but I am getting wild with the wine and a love that is hatching in me.

He told me that in antiquity people would describe their emotions as being held in their core, their stomach and bowels, but I feel it in that slow pulsing behind my eyes and in the nerves of my skin and my scalp tingles now because of it. I want to touch him and I tell him so. I tell him that he is precious to me and I feel a bit undeserving and he dissuades me with his genuine grin and reaches out, takes my hand and begins to feel me. I burn and look at his fingers tracing paths along my veins and his alabaster skin against my peach-colored pink-fringed hue. I start to cry a little because he is touching me so gently and with great care. I feel precious and laden with emotion. I am also crying because I am loving for all the right reasons and I feel he is loving me too.

I close my eyes and minutes, hours, eons pass. There is nakedness on the couch, tender kisses and exploring ligaments. There is nakedness in the bed. Smiles, laughing. I want to play piano on his teeth, those gorgeous teeth. Little sighs and laughs, every emotion I've ever managed to feel sweeps over me and morning comes and goes, and in the afternoon I awaken to painlessness for the first time in a very long time.

It's late now as I write this and I desperately want to go back to those feelings that are more powerful than any drug, but I must wait a few more hours. Until then, while the apartment is silent and I am alone with my own thoughts and the cats' purring I put my face in my hands and tell myself to hush, and be still.

Bodhisattva on the metro

The Presets

Every once in a while there is a band that comes along and completely floors me with the entirety of the music that they put out. The Presets are, by far, one of the best bands currently creating music. They are slightly reminescent of the Pet Shop Boys, but with more current techno and electronica influences, deep bass lines, tragic vocals and emotionally charged lyrics. 

Dreams in the Tunnel

I was born within these very walls. I awoke to life, a shuddering mass of flesh, bleeding and gelatinous in the excruciating pain of my coming forth. For a great span of time, there was nothing but the feeling of sorrow from the vague remembrance of a lost sense of ultimate well-being.
  The surface of the walls was polished and smooth, but rigid. There was no way for me to go but forward and even that at the cost of great efforts. My eyes were not yet accustomed to the arduous task of seeing, or understanding vision. It was the basic awareness of a soul that searches to learn and to evolve into a greater being.
  I could not say that any of these thoughts had coherence but they were forming as embryos of what would later be my convictions.
  I observed silently, wanting something more crucial that I could not define. As my senses were sharpening, more acute ideas were
forming in my mind, along with scraps of sensations from an earlier
existence I was vaguely conscious of.
  The birth of each sense was a marvelous experience and I can still recall each of them in chronological sequence. First, my eyes. Vision in a silent world. Colors and dimensions. The concavity of the walls, their gold and brown tint and the diffuse brightness that would illuminate them at times or disappear, to leave me in complete darkness. The height and vastness of the place I was in. And the first confusing emotion that I existed, though soon after, accompanied by the
realization that I was alone.
  I cannot be sure of when the saddening feeling first overwhelmed me, but suddenly I was encountering a vague fear. I suppose it was necessary for me to completely be conscious that I was, and also to know what I perceived with my evolving senses.
  I cannot say much about touch, for the walls and floor surfaces were evenly polished and soft and that was the only thing I could come in contact with.
  After many episodes of brightness followed by darkness, my body started to feel incomplete, as if a tiny part of it was becoming vacant and longing. It was very unclear, but I started to be weaker and less willing to even think.
  Yet, at the back of my mind there was an insidious desire and I
slowly turned over myself and looked behind me. On the floor, in front of what was the end cavity of the tunnel, there lay a small pile of whitish matter. Broken fragments of an unknown object. The first other entity I had come to face besides the shaft itself.
  The implication dawned on me: This was food and I was hungry. I ate the whole thing, down to the smallest speck. The void inside me
disappeared. I was content and sleepy.
  Slumber overtook me.

  Eons passed and I awoke in the warmth of the walls, pondering my existence. Ignorant as to the meaning of it but wishful of a coming enlightenment. I was feeling stronger and the walls appeared to be getting smaller. In some queer way, I did not feel threatened but rather expectant. I was still unaware of my purpose but that was no longer my main concern. I learned, I observed, collecting all sensations and ideas to form a memory, a complex accumulation of data encompassing the smallest and most insignificant details. Deeper conclusions could be drawn from the
stillness that surrounded me and I neglected nothing.
  Soon after my vision had sharpened to clarity, I started hearing. A wonderful attribute it was, as if I was being introduced to yet another world. Something extraordinary for me to experience.
  It started out as a vague uproar, the indication of either an immense being or a great multitude of small ones moving altogether. Then I was able to distinguish my own sound: a soft, shuffling movement, accompanied by an occasional clicking.
  From what I now believed to be the world outside of my dwelling came a variety of noises. Sometimes piercing as if they were issued from the belly of living creatures like myself and sometimes inhuman, like the tossing and turning of the universe itself. And I would remain still, attentive to the tiniest report, associating it with a visual perception I imagined. Because I had no actual knowledge or pictorial notion of the cause of it, I could fantasize and populate the outside with what I thought to be the most beautiful beasts.
  I knew many shapes and forms from my slumbering moments when I would explore other dimensions free of the wall’s limits. Wondrous beings and plants, in motion, animated by an all-powerful life. And I, the onlooker, surveying the many chores they attended to.
  Those instants were like escaping, evading the narrow perception of my real life. Structures populated by lanky entities, four-limbed and standing upright on their hind legs, in a constant state of movement. Jerky and graceless but purposeful. Water pouring from the white inhabitants of a darkened sky, flashes of blinding light and
mindless, moving, glistening beasts, utterly controlled by those beings
who used them to perform diverse tasks, the meaning of which I could not grasp.
  I was constantly puzzled by the ambiguity of their behavior and sometimes envied the fullness and relentlessness of their existence.
Even in what I considered its apparent absurdity.
  The dreams were at times in color but mostly monochromatic. And when I awoke, I found it painful not to be able to maintain a grip on this reality. To be returned by an omnipotent power to my confined
environment without even the slightest knowledge of why I was there.
  I suspected a greater purpose that would be revealed to me in the future. And that thought was inexorably becoming my strongest desire. Yet, there was a sum of things I instinctively knew, some wisdom issued to me in the anterior incarnation of my being, or to whatever I might have been. Or perhaps it was the knowledge inherent to my spirit before it had become limited to my body.
  For instance, I could in no way confuse dreams with my awoken
state. And though I could not say that I had any reasoning about it, I
knew they were telling me the truth about all those beings and the life I saw while sleeping. So strongly I yearned to be in closer contact with it.
  Sadly enough, I was also becoming aware that my reserves of
strength were not inexhaustible. Quite the contrary, actually. And the
idea had already formed itself in my mind that I must follow the tunnel to whatever destination it might take me. My inscrutable fate.
  But I was hungry again. And the white substance I had previously eaten was entirely gone. Still, rather than perish of hunger without any attempt at action, I set myself in the only possible direction that was open to me.
  I was making excruciatingly slow progress, but there was nothing else I could do. And that singleness of purpose gave me a renewed sense of energy. I kept going and had almost reached the gentle curve that would hide my point of origin, when something so overwhelming and wonderful happened that for a long while afterwards I had to retire in the memory of the event.
  A great dark mass of living entity appeared at the end of the tunnel. It was enormous and awesome, surpassing my size in all possible dimensions. It was preceded by a thundering noise of sliding and pounding and it came at me so fast, I had no time to even be fully conscious of my fear. Strangely enough, I felt akin to the amazing creature, and the fear was only for the vastness of its power.
  The beast slowed its approach as it came close to me. I remained immobile, awaiting whatever fate would befall me. Its tremendous body was almost touching mine and I was faced with two huge eyes
that looked upon me with a certain kindness. It gently dropped a piece of what I instinctively recognized as food in front of me. Then,
without further delay, it withdrew and rapidly disappeared from my sight.
  I was stunned as if struck by paralysis. Yet, inside, I longed to follow it, to be fast and great, But I already knew my strength.
  I ate the food, fell into another slumber full of flying creatures and colorful landscapes, where unceasing animation and ever changing elements created a beautiful background for a different kind of life.
  I awoke again to my own boundaries and resumed my journey.
  Once I had gone beyond the first curve, the tunnel became larger and higher. My progress was now accompanied by a louder sound and
that somehow reassured me.
  The creature did not reappear but now, at various intervals, I would find nourishment laid out for me on the floor. I felt as though it wanted to lure me toward itself and that my purpose was to comply with it. Loneliness was once again assaulting me and at times, I found it quite unbearable. After awhile, I knew that it was a necessity for me to come in contact with someone, just for the sake of proving my worth, or even my very existence.
  It seemed that the tunnel was turning around, coiling its path unto itself, becoming in my mind an uncanny maze, leading me to an
unknown destination.
  In the dreams, I was starting to understand what that other world was about. The pattern of those beings was finally making sense. They attended to various tasks, ate, slept, reproduced and amused themselves. I envied the complexity of possibilities they possessed to
occupy themselves with. And also the fact that there were so many of
them, altogether.
  My size was increasing and the proportions of the tunnel were no longer so impressive nor frightening. Steadily, I advanced, sharing my time between moving ahead, occasionally eating and my much awaited span of rest. My body was feeling more powerful and resilient and those sleeping periods were decreasing.
  In many ways, I was almost happy, for now I had a goal. I desired. And wanting and wishing was wonderful.
  Often, I would pause and consider the design of the distance I had already covered and I found it very mysterious. Nowhere in my dream-world had I witnessed such a structure. It was very different and beautiful. The translucence of the walls allowed a filtered, pinkish
light to shine through and I basked in that soft illumination which, I
supposed, provided for the warmth in the tunnel. It was always perfectly comfortable.
  I had grown to feel a kind of happiness because my dwelling was a
sanctuary where I evolved, protected from whatever possible danger
existed outside. My quest was losing its original impetus and I was not always sure I still wanted to reach any sort of destination.
  I was constantly supplied with food by the huge creature and I had my other life in imagination. Though I could not participate in it, I was satisfied as an onlooker.
  Perhaps it was cowardice that kept me from wanting to be a part of it, the fear of discovering what I was, what I represented to these beings. A confrontation of some sort, leading to an unknown outcome, possibly negative. It was not that I feared being displeasing to them. However, I had learned within myself that I possessed a strong instinct of self-preservation.
  I wanted to live.
  It was an illogical and unreasonable impulse, independent of whether I felt joy or satisfaction. It lay at the deepest core of my being and I never wished to contest it. And as the scale of the tunnel
became greater, I felt more exhilarated by this sense of existing, of living something that validated all the earlier pain and even the pain to come.
  The clearer my vision became, the more I began noticing uncanny tracks on the ground. It was a mixture of water and a glossy substance. I always drank the water but felt strangely repelled by
the rest. It became hard and was endowed with an unusual odor. I somehow knew that it came from the one who fed me, and each time I found clues of its coming, a sweet sadness overtook me. But I guessed that it did not wish to encounter me face to face any longer.
  The air was getting cooler now and I was able to feel a strong draft. It brought with it a variety of smells that I hadn’t experienced
before. I believed I could associate them with things and living creatures from my dream-world. It was also harder for me to keep warm but the answer to that question kept eluding me. I knew it lay somewhere in my mind like a buried secret that a part of me refused to acknowledge. Possibly because it would uncover a greater truth that I was not yet ready to accept.
  The luminosity of the walls was becoming brighter and I could tell that I was now reaching the outer coil of my labyrinthine habitat. I was torn between excitement and anxiety as I realized that all my questions would soon be answered.
  Another slumber to oblivion.

  I wanted to approach the strange beings, be with them. Possibly be one of them. I felt kinship enough to let them welcome me into their life. I was not sure which particular type of them I could identify with. If I was tall or small, male or female. They communicated amongst themselves with musical sounds that expressed diverse emotions. I could not exactly understand how it was done but I wanted to learn.
  Back in my conscious state, in the tunnel, I conjectured that to reach the end of it was to enter their world. I started moving faster, ignoring the pain in my body, the intense desire to lie down and sleep. Then, at the corner of a final coil, the tunnel opened.
  It was a huge gap, the entire width and length of it. A gust of cold wind blew from it and the landscape beyond was nothing like what I had imagined. A blinding light was bringing alien colors to life. Browns and greens mostly, thin and sharp blades of vegetation shooting out of a thickly crusted ground. Giant flowers unfolding silken, opalescent petals and sword-like pistils to a dooming overcast sky. Clusters of mountainous rocks, barring the way in all directions. And the noise, deafening, aggressive and frightening.
  A whole world, entirely alive, breathing, moving, screaming its every sensation.
  I was stunned by the greatness of it all, the gigantic scale of everything that surrounded me. Nothing was as I thought it would be.
Right then, I had the painful realization that perhaps my dreams had been just that: dreams. My imagination creating a land of distorted realities that had no place within the truth.
  My disappointment was immense. As if a terrifying doom had come crashing down on me, shattering my heart and identity at once. Something was wrong, something had been wrong all along. I was not what I had thought I was and I had extended that lie to my perception of the outside world. I did not belong to that race of beings I had dreamed of.
  I was different, something else.
  For instance, I had always refused to think of myself or my body and synthesize the knowledge of those different parts that I knew,
into a full picture. I looked back now, even unsure that the tunnel had
ever existed. Another shock awaited me. From the outside, the maze was simply, a shell. A huge cracked shell, empty and cold, barren of any inhabitant, forgotten and discarded by its former resident.
  And at that instant I knew. I knew but I could not accept, and
everything suddenly seemed unfair.
  Immobile, letting this new and most agonizing awareness penetrate me, I was at a loss. Yet, a great noise was defining itself in
my head, of something approaching. Something vast and indelicate, its
movements striking the ground like a gigantic anger to make it repent
from existing. I could not think but only be.
  In a flash, it appeared.
  The man, one of the bipeds of my slumber world. But not of my
scale. Gigantic, filling my sky and my world with its silhouette, surpassing the size of the shell hundreds of times. Surely, oblivious
to my very existence, as it pursued its course to one of those locations where I had seen many of them regroup.
  I knew I stood in his path and that escape was impossible, so I slowly turned and looked at my own back. Taking in the vision of that
identical shell to the one I had inhabited, stuck in the mid-length of my slug-like body.
  And at the very instant when inner-peace finally overcame me, the
gargantuan foot stepped on me.
  Thunder, shattering, pain ... oblivion...