Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Dearest of Friends, I dedicate this story to you
Article by Marc Aupiais
I do not care much if any other reads this, dear friend of mine. For the longest time I have been writing for you, and one other perhaps. You asked me to write you a story and thus I shall.
I thought of the caves i created, or of the pristine valley you so loved.
I thought of you lying with my words as your pillow, all printed out. Thinking of me as you sleep, of my words, which adore you, dear friend of mine, my words, which you adore. Which make you cry of sorrow, and of joyous love.
As i write, as is usual in my country, it is raining, I hear a thunder storm, as classical music from the Vatican itself does play, and I think of the water you bought me all that time ago, in a place of honour in my soul and mind.
I can tell so many stories, and I shall but a few.
You see, dear friend of mine. This world we see, isn't really real. No, indeed, it is not.
What we see as insurmountable is indeed not at all.
I shall tell you of a dream I had dear friend, dearest of all mine, and you can say if it compares, with the laboured out works, which usually I pen.
I have always believed I shall die violently, perhaps of a shark attack. It is why I never swim, this superstition of mine. I fear, shall I enter the ocean, I shall be carried up and away. I shall die, this fear of mine, mine heart and soul.
A witch, I call her, in this daylight dream. I stand at the strangest place I know, my University, that of the Witwatersrand, dear friend of mine.
Not by the law building, with men carrying crucifixes, but who are not Christ, and men in hell, or something the like, standing, beckoning us to where law students belong.
Nor by the libraries, stories high, with not a book I have bothered to consult, not to care for. Or for the English classes where I nearly got a first, and would have, perhaps, if I'd bothered to read the labourous works.
No, this occurs, at a favourite spot of mine, near where last I saw a friend who soon would die. It happens by a tall building housing a shop, by stairs in front. In front of the shop- the "Lighthouse" we universally call it. Mysterious not.
None the less, this is where I imagine it happening. five students, innocent, and with a sixth. The sixth is our hero, you see.
And a strange woman, everyone calls a witch. She stands there in the background, invisible, unseen, and she transfers the sixth and then all the others, with him. To another world, this beautiful siren she is.
They stand together on a deserted Island, only sand and one tall coconut tree.
And around them are fins, larger than buildings, of sharp razor teeth, we need not mention.
And while the others argue, as the tide rises, sure to soon cover their Island. The sixth hears the siren in his mind, and swims straight towards a giant shark, which fortunately is distracted, and doesn't bother to attempt top eat him just yet.
Here is where I hault in this story I've held for years.
Does he swim below the shark, avoiding attack and find some system of underwater caves, with air within? Does he meet locals, or get saves in a boat, rickety, or a jet ski. What happens to this man, in the see, 27 miles from the mainland beyond. A black rock coast, deadly to those who approach.
If he is the man I believe him, and the siren who she is, either way, with everything against him. It is sure he must fight for his life as he swims and gets nowhere.
Perhaps he holds the shark's fin, and it doesn't kill him by dunking down, or maybe it takes him further out to see or chomps him right up.
I am not sure how it writes.
It the water beyond him is blood, and fish in a frenzy. Perhaps in the middle is the Siren, whom he must save.
In another story dear friend of mine.
A man is climbing a mountain, tireless, and on instinct. He does not desire glory, or the arcane joy of the achievement. No, he knows there is a timepiece of gold, that he must grab unto. It is the soul of a woman, trapped in time, in the world, which is delusion. He climbs up the black rocks, and leans over the edge, knowing he'll sink forever into the snow, if he isn't careful to balance, and not to lean upon. He grabs and grabs at the timepiece, but cannot reach it. He holds unto a rock ledge, much like a tree, and upon a limb, he holds upon his hand, and leans, his legs holding up. He grabs at the timepiece in an avalanche, and finds he grabs a woman's hand. He pulls her up as she reaches for him. Upon the black rock, looking below at the avalanche, he knows he's found his wife.
He was to save her, as she was only but his own and not never for another to touch or to love. For none but him could be so constant or indeed love as much.
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