profane hurricane — { micha & jackson
Association initiates the divine creation of patterns in which the human brain can process information as if batching petabytes of data, plugging one chord to an opposing outlet and provoking a result. These wired connections are interchangeable, with the ability to group multiple variables with an eclectic variety of categories. The analytics – results corrected down to the decimal – are morphed into a pristine graphic that amounts to bullshit and pure fuckery which is also known as memories.
It was rare for humans – no, not just humans, but rather any being – not to have strange memories of their past. It was like a collective album of blurry photographs, left as a reminder to the life form that they were imperfect flaws pieced together to hold their skin, bones, and flesh. It was a residual amount that allowed the particular species to learn from experience pre se. It was an indication that suggested you certainly did not want to repeat the same course of action that would lead to impending doom.
But the silver lining was that memories were altered every time you thought about them. What you had for breakfast? The mental image slightly different than the actual; perhaps your toast was actually placed forty-five degrees in correspondence to your plate. The girl you swore you fell in love with in the first grade? Maybe she looks prettier now than she did before, hair askew with her skirt always accidentally tucked into her underwear. But right now, all you remember is that one time when she shared her lunch with you. Memories were a warped adjustment of diluted, refraction that created a glossier version of reality that could be projected from one individual to another.
And that was precisely why the flaw of repetition recurred without shame or fear.
Why, with all the unforgotten feelings of kindled enlightenment, arousal, and exuberance that left Jiaer with Pandora’s metal box clutched in his hand as he wandered home during the final hour of the moon’s departure behind the horizon, why did he want her so badly?
And those feelings never left.
Which was perhaps how the conjecture of the sonic, visual onslaught before him consumed every filament that comprised of the young man. Once a boy that drew together marble between his dreaming fingers, creating the being he had encountered for no longer than a breath; he could at least encounter her once more, in the silence trapped behind his skull, deep in the slumber that shrouded him.
An eerie whisper that coddled his skin, luring him just as she had the first time around. But she was captured in a glass, unchanged by time with the same elegance that glimmered behind the irises of a once fifteen year-old boy. This was unlike himself. However, it was no different than the night she had kissed a cigarette into his lips, and cursed him with a vice that would trigger him to wonder whether his mouth was around a wand or perhaps the longing to see her once more. And one could assume that it was because the fragile paper was the only string left that he twined down weft and warp to keep the figment of his imagination intact.
Invitations were not to be rejected when it came to the men with onyx, abysmal eyes that had tainted their smoky breaths with every drop of blood that had curdled between their swift fingers and vulgar mouths. Domesticated with the fortunate lips of a liar and the hands of an artisan, he too found himself at home with the mischief-makers that hedged each plaster plane.
And he swore he must have been inebriated when he finally sees her.
The streams of sanguine accelerated as their velocity dug into every nerve that warped around his being, the dam of bones were left as shards, acuminating his muscles as the crimson flood rose to his ankles – as if he dove in, with the intention to drown. Fluid rushing, charging through his nostrils and clogging his throat with every word of affection he had recited to himself when he was in slumber, when he was wired – the daze of iridescent oil spilling behind the lashes of his pair of irises dilated like the icy discs that embraced the planets that floated above him.
And when he finally realized he had stopped breathing – that his lungs had failed him – she was washed away as instantaneously as their first encounter.
It never occurred to him that she was comprised of flesh, blood, and bone. Teeth grit against the blessing she sinned between his lips, he offers Pandora’s a box a gaze – thumb brushing along the metallic crown as he brought the ember up towards the end of his cigarette to light.
Keep going, she had said.
And as if commanded, he never stopped.
