Quoted By:
>Continued
Through you and out: the ocean through your mouth, your nose, your ears, your pores, rushing out, pure as gems, clean as wind. Warm as your body. It wells up over the trash, the mud, the lip of the pond; it spills out over the other bank, then beyond, into the scum-choked pools, over the limp trees, dissolving everything it touches. You? Yes, it's dissolving you. Your jaw's come off. You are riddled with widening holes. When the water comes above your head, you collapse and slide apart.
You don't mind. You can't mind? It's true you're no stranger to states like these, Bug Man, goo man, but it's just as true you're busy. You're feeling things. You may later describe these feelings with words like "dopey" or "nauseating" or "gullshit," which is completely understandable: you have to live somehow. You can't go on like this, all primordial soup, all light and blood and silt. There's no room for that in a hard dead world like yours. You will draw lines, build walls, do what you must. You are at heart a survivor.
It's hoped only that you'll take something away. The afterglow must fade (the shine wears off the apple, you'd say, the bloom falls off the rose) but you might keep it somewhere hidden inside, beyond the lines and walls. You may bury it as deep as you like. You may drop it into cold water. It matters nothing if you want it now: it will rest, and you will have it when you need it most. No, you can't go on like this. But must you go on like that?
You're not listening. Good. You are occupied with larger things, like the sheer raw love pouring into you, out of you— you don't know which is which. You love the sun and the ocean. The sun and the ocean love you. You love the gloss of the Pillar. The gloss of the Pillar loves you. You love Mom and Warren and Alfie and Hazel and Gene, and they love you, even if you died. You love Pops, even if he pussied out on you. You love the seafloor and the City and the freedom and you love being stuck in a box for six months and you love beetles, every aspect, but mainly the wings. You love to fly. You love Other Gil and you're sorry you went for his nuts. You're sure he's sorry, too. You're sorry you failed Lottie, but you love her too. She loves you back.
(You will replay the last bit multiple times before dismissing it as the free-association of a fogged-up mind. If you were loving being trapped in hell, 'love' as a word is meaningless. What you meant was liking her, like a regular friend. Or like a retainer. You don't know how retainers are supposed to like people. You're also not sure how she's supposed to like you back, but you're absolutely certain it follows the rules. You're both big on rules.)
(1/3)
