On the Third Day

Tick. Tock.

If I cannot fall, what then shall I affix Myself to? Of high-sky orbit, a trifling superposition of vision and sound, an interpolation of mediums retarding and regarding the splay of incandescence from bulb to bulb. And this gives Him an idea.

Photo by Joshua Hoehne on Unsplash

Because to engineer an idea, from the sore fabric of mindspace, bleak and maneuvered by clouds of vicissitudes, is the first great feeling any newborn experiences.

Is it more instinctual to smile or cry? Is it fear or caustic retribution against the cloistering of lungs? He was delivered smiling, with but one thought (which disconcertingly sounded, to listening ears, like vengeance): “If they deny me the right to fall, then they equally squander my hopes of success.” Smiling, because, in that rice paddy, he was dropped.

Like an abraded stone in the Cave of Play-Doh.

This bloody cess of muck into which He washed from below, an impenetrable alibi for true fertile loam. The belch of the sea took fierce hold of the cul-de-sac, and carved, with her silent streams, a passageway, along this sludge corridor He begged would lead back to the Light. Cool, damp fingers of languid ooze slip from His flesh as He burrows forward on elbows and hip grinds. His maleness stings resolute in the humid thickness of an ebbing pool of clay even as His breath escapes in puffs of condensation. He flops over onto His back, and perhaps audibly, He exhorts: “Mother, why have you forsaken me here! Left me abide in my own refuse with only the tormenting suffering of your scent, but never your presence!”

He heaves with sobbing, eyes shut to the darkness that envelops. He heaves with sobbing into the back of his lids so forceful it is a hurricane torrent that springs from his pores. As if He could remember gunshot sounds, as if He could already press lovers’ lips to His own, as if lying in this oasis of gloom He could also be suddenly standing in front of a thousand full theater seats with flare from floor lights and a grueling and disorienting eye of a spot following his every shirk. The room has a glorious, tuned ambience that is now overwritten with boasting booh’s that overwhelm and shrink Him, naked on-stage and cowering to a boisterous wave of hissing mockery.

“Ha! Tell us a joke!” Jeers and the sound of crashing potted plants bounce off His albino skin to reinvent the melodious chain to the community orchestra.

— A Man, a Rabbit, and an Abracadabra walk into a bar…

“You’ve quite the brown-nose for gold…!” An extended hand breaks through a column of light. Exactly what sort of mud was the Prospector sticking His face in? (Don’t take it!)

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