Sleep to Dream

[Mignonne]

I gaze at the profile of Igor as he sleeps, I enjoy taking captures of him in such sedate or thoughtful states, as he can be quite animated.

The curl of the lash, sweep of the brow, the broad heaving chest.

Every day is its own life-time, its own eternity. And I am afraid of forever.

I trace my hand along the cleft of his chest and to the throbbing artery of his neck. So full of life, so virile. Yet... I withdraw, recalling transgressions, some which I discovered, others he confided. Then place a kiss at the corner of his mouth: You are not beautiful, you're ugly. Imperfection is necessary.

But, sometimes I see something beyond the flesh and the sewage we regurgitate, and there you are... pure energy. Brilliance.

Perhaps I am ugly deep down or only the layer just underneath the epidermis. I am unused to someone without an initial superficial motive. I am not treated like a trophy... yet.

I had a nightmare last night that I turned into Baby. I woke and pored over my hands, making sure the fingers were slender and tapered, that my stomach was flat, breast small. I even went as far as looking in the mirror, surprised to find it was not her face looking back.

My dreams and inner-landscapes are invasive.

Lately I keep checking my hands or how I hold them. Despite my model back-ground, I spend so little time now in front of a mirror or camera, and the eyes of people. I have a new contact offering more modelling opportunities, but do I want to do that again? I will if I have to and can.

Without pictures, I'd forget my own face.

But this page in history is not colorfast, will stain the next.

Aeru, until I can think of a better word. We weave the web of dreams, you and I, musing back and forth at our potentiality. But we are too close to ground, too wrapped up in the world and its trivialities.

The spark is earned, it is the bridge between 'you' and 'I', and the illusions of here. Why do we waste so much time?

Do you feel the fire in your veins? Does your blood burn?

Eyes dialate and get lost in the rapture of recognition. For it cannot be denied, no one can.

I should be sleeping, but I never know what I'm going to face.

Breathing underwater,
And living under glass.

 

[Mignonne]

The Passengers

Queen of Swords, am I? I see your heart, and raise you a spade.

He and I met simply because I imposed on a conversation, he was holding an Italian rapier and I recognized the hilt. I had trained with the weapon in fencing, so I rather ejaculated upon seeing it.

The conversation was interrupted briefly by my sudden interjection, to which he replied he had also trained with it for a couple years. We set aside to our own conversation out of courtesy.

Initially I found him to be rather obstinate and abrasive, I could not reinact that first conversation even if my life depended on it. I excused myself, quite sure that I did not like this man, boy, whatever he was.

However, our correspondence continued off and on, often when it was very late at night. I listened and he spoke. I knew he had a "girlfriend" (not a fan of that word), and the things he divulged to me, while honest, made me dislike him even more as a person. Forget his appearance, which is nothing to boast about. But for me looks are last on the list of prerequisites.

If you have nothing else to bring to the table, at least a well played hand can be a pleasing distraction.

It was apparent he needed someone to talk to, we had both had extremely rough lives, rendering us alumni of The School of Hard Knocks. All joking aside, we had none to confide in because we were dealing with a first world audience that could not relate, such was the brutality of our histories.

The primary difference being that the destruction had been inflicted on me by others and he mostly inflicted the destruction on others or himself. There was not a romantic nerve in the marrow of this bizarre friendship, survivors of the underground.

When tired, one would bid farewell to the other saying their train had come, so we simply refered to eachother as Passengers.

Within a couple months I would wake to messages that had been left in the night, asking to speak to me, but I was to be aware that he did "Not find me attractive" and he was "Not going to fuck me."

Well, thank Satan, I thought. I had a shortage of those, and it was quite refreshing to be truthful. But that message was rather aggressively thrown at me, and not infrequently.

Oh, stop flattering yourself by trying to convince me I can't seduce you.

Sometimes I would think it was some sort of thinly veiled reverse psychology. You are really a piece of work... oh, the blessings of internal dialogue. I knew it wasn't though, as scummy as his stories were about needing a certain kind of woman; a dangerous one.

This was never exacting, what constituted "a dangerous woman," so I nodded behind my figurative newspaper.

I wondered if he was aware how full of himself he was, or moreover, how aware of it I was.