I can’t stop fidgeting in this old blue chair, with its white floral design and hand knit throw blanket made of vanilla colored yarn strewn across the back. The subtle squeaks of the worn springs as I shift in my seat break the shy silence lingering in the air, it’s heavy like the winds on a sail. The blowing feelings in directions as long as the vessel has the sails open, except this ship isn’t moving; I am not moving. I can feel the sweat on my palms beginning to dry out; my nervousness and angst sinking – this is what it must feel like to be centered – but I cannot get the butterflies to evacuate my stomach. I don’t know why I am incapable of rising in this occasion, but I confess that it is more than possible that I simply do not want to get up, I am happy.
To most, I should not be standing where I am, at the base of the mountain many have failed to climb, but I am not those memories. I am what does not exist, I am the idea of something else, and the embodiment of everything I swore off those years ago to protect myself from a world I never fully trusted. I shift again and the stuttered metallic snaps of the coils beneath the fabric skin are telling me it’s time, the clock has rung. “Stand!” my mind tells me, “Be greater than what you are!” I purse my lips, lick them gently and ponder about a possibility that has not occurred. I am ready. I curl my toes in my mismatched striped socks, clinch my hands like there is a railing protecting me from a ledge, and open my eyes. A giggle permeates the sky blue comforter on the pillowy surface 18 inches from my legs, eyes peer from behind the darkness and inject a life I had to acknowledge but could never find the words to. It feels like home, as if the etymology of comfort had existed because of this very moment, that without the chemistry striking my core twice a second, we would not have had the ability to explain what I’ve always felt.
I have stopped asking the questions that used to consume me, they were just as relevant as they are now, but they hold a fear that prevents my departure from this blue chair of tradition. Conservatively, the left’s I took somehow lead me to the right, but it was not without repercussion; actions that would reverberate within the core of my being. I reach out to the hand grasping in my direction, gently and calmly intertwining my fingers with theirs as they try to pull me into bed. I playfully resist, but as with every other time, I cannot resist for long – it just feels right. With the clinking of the springs in the chair extending to original form, I know that it’s a reflection of my Azul seat, telling me that it’s time to accept what was not supposed to be and offering a trade: My reality for my Reality.
The temperature in the room is rising as I slide closer to the bed, both hands grasping and clinching tightly. Chatter in my head ringing and knocking about, as if my subconscious is pointing out something important; I am not listening. Not because I think or am concerned that it may be something I do not want to hear, in fact, it’s quite the contrary. I am afraid that I may hear what I’ve been wanting to hear this entire time – I am not wrong. A flash of red streaks across the room, blinding me momentarily, but I open my eyes to a warmth I cannot explain nor choose to analyze any further. The others have always told me about this moment, but I failed to comprehend the lighter side of this darkness; passion engaged to sensuality. But it’s all wrong; it is horrible, it is bad. It is so very much what I wanted. The breathing becomes heavier, the hands clinch tighter, the lips outstretching to the other, magnetized and attracted to the other. This is what they must have meant when they said opposites attract, except the polar separation is measured in fractions of a degree and not the other side – this wave of particles is on the same frequency – this is what happens when opposite sides bleed through to create a worthwhile story.
But that’s all it is, a story. A tale of two people that were wrong for one another, all right, so it must be all wrong. The only speak of destiny was used in reference to death, the idea of serendipity remains only an idea, and this lustful and glorious moment is but a broken piece of glass safely stored with the others. For years I’d ignored what came naturally, for seconds I ignored the slowing of time, for you I’ve engrossed myself because I found out that flexibility leads to immense pleasure. Placing myself next to you, hands still tangled, I roll over placing my hip to yours swaying to a drummer only we can hear, finding the sublime in the layers that still covers our being. Carefully, I slide my hand down, making sure the callused pads of my fingers are only felt when minor pressure is applied to your back, as if it were meant to grip your skin to ensure total friction. Heat emanates from the bed, moans swirl and reflect off of every corner of the room, scaring away the beastly memories of the day hiding under the bed — time has finally disappeared. The hunger felt is merely for one another, to satisfy a craving that could be satiated by many, but somehow the covalent nature of this that does not exist points to the infinite.
The window is open and the mystic moonlight breaks through and stealthily illuminates the room. It is lighting just enough to see but not enough to taste, and so with a quick and gentle force, our hands become frozen to the wall. A heavy but unlabored breath escapes her chest and I can hear the moisture as she slides her lips together, anxious. The old chair is now a forethought, the cream walls emitting a blue hue from the moonlight and the red from our skin is shockingly not mixing with the astral intrusion, instead we are projecting it. We are projecting Red, and every interpretation that bleeds through is instantly stopped just outside of our bodies, like watching water coloring dry. This is the flow of our being and like the liquid that takes shape of its container, we are molding to our surroundings; we find the bed.