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A Study on Texture



I. Where the protagonist finds an enchanting white flower in the woods and plants it at the enemy’s gate.

Somewhere in the wild woods I wondered upon a speck of nostalgia. I held this speck very close to my bosom and prayed upon it.
               The speck was white as an angel’s drapery, folding all around like so many sheets of tissue paper, all sparkly and such.
               Velvet. I petted it, distancing myself from the essence of its beauty as I observed the texture all the more. Texture. Mostly that’s what matters. Not the color, not the scent, not the endurance or the riddle leaping from its mouth.
               I found a special place for it.
               Each morning I journeyed upon a warm path. The sun rose where it was expected to, and cast a light of rose gold upon the sand paper road. I journeyed so often that sand paper wore away, wore upon my shoes and wore off my shoes until all that was left – my feet.
               My bare feet and the texture. Smooth.
               The smooth path is a path to my enemy’s house, and at the enemy’s gate is my speck of glory. My speck of drip drops and of miracles and of harmonious delight.
I will not declare the identity of my enemy. Do not inquire. Perhaps I have no answer because I do not know myself. Perhaps, because I have not inquired. Perhaps, because you should have inquired long ago.
               Do not inquire. Mystery is nice. Nice texture. Yes.
More like texture experienced inside the mouth – magnified beyond comparison. The gums. Sore upon swallowing, upon the entrance to the throat – white upon sensitive, soft palates.
               Some have asked for my expertise and I have none to give. “No more than the next,” I say as if I am a confidant. “I am not a unique individual,” is my response. “I strive not to be.”
               I would much rather be soft, or sanguine, or dive into the water without knowing how deep. The water is a cold, blue texture. It wets my forehead and my tongue and after a time the wet dries away. Once the wet is gone I wonder if it was there before. I like the wet. My speck of nostalgia likes the wet too.
               The sun is beastly. “Harsh,” I say. “Very harsh.” Rubbly like my father’s beard – growing up into a forest. The sun dyes my skin – brown – cocoa powder in my pours. Yellow – an amber lollypop.
I do not live in the sun. White skin is my pleasure. Soft satin skin. Velvet.
So I gather my folks and I garnish my cloaks, and my pure white speck awaits my arrival.
              

II. Where the protagonist forms a cult dedicated to the worship of the white flower.

               Four cloaked silhouettes in the morning rose gold. Four cloaks white as an angel’s drapery, folding all around like so many sheets of tissue paper, all sparkly and such.
               Like starlight.
               “Isn’t it evening?” The youngest whispers.
               “Not to us. To us it is morning.”
I pretend not to hear. “This is a special day for you all.” But they already know. Why did I speak? “This road leads to my enemy, but at the end is the dear thing,” I cough, thinking. “Much more pure than my enemy is foul.”
               They nod. Obedient pupils. Silent pupils.
               Sultry traipse through the wilderness. Dust under our feet, staining our toenails dark colors. Fine, I suppose. All living creatures must have roots. And roots are brown. From now through eternity I shall not fret about the cleanliness of my feet. Feet are motives by which to journey – through the darkness, through the mire. When I forget the pain I must look down at the dust. Then, I must remember.
               What significance has the end if the beginning is yet forgotten?
Owls are the masters of the wood.
               Once, I found a baby owl dead on my path. Still warm breath hushed, transformed into a rigid cloud of moisture. I petted the owl. I had to, for the sake of my fingertips. I dug beneath the outer, colored layer and deep into the down, white, small feathers of
               No. No further. I cannot appreciate something beautiful when it is dead. There is no joy to be invested.
               Yet I know some are still alive. I hear them cooing this morning, as the four of us traipse on into the darkness, scalding the enemy with our impending presence, spreading dandelion seeds where they are unwanted. On the path.
               I am a weed. I grow where I am unwanted.
              

III. The end and the lilting
               All down the path no one speaks. We listen as the owls coo and watch as the liquid lakes, all shining in the millogrove and lingering in the Reds. We are inventing figures of speech in our minds because we are composed of fresh velvet.  We taste ash. Down at the end of the road some things are burning.
               Down at the end of the road….
               “Behold, children, behold!” I wail, leaping in front, spreading my arms, convinced my body is as big as an Ocean, convinced I am capable of pushing the answers a little further away.
               They are waiting now, glaring at me with those large eyes even as my back turns toward them, as I direct my attention to my PRIZE! Their pupils are far too black in their white faces. It is a 3D effect. Their eyes are large enough to swallow me.
               But I have other interests, interests that force my mind to oblivion and my heart to shreds. Parcels of joy that I have captured and placed in my forearm, in my little pinky finger, in the dorsal part of my skull.
               My speck. The white speck. The speck that inspires courage and innocence, purity and
               Desolation.
              
               My lily. My pure white lily velvet to the touch, wet on its forehead, lingering scent in the doorway and even the scent was rich as the sensation of wet sand in the palm of your hand.
               My speck – my lily – has withered. I thought it was eternal. Something so beautiful should be eternal. It must be eternal, since I worshipped it.
               But I was deceived.
               I stroke it lovingly, my pupils descending around me, tearing their white garments. One of them wails with me. The others cast their robes to the wind and run for the lake, whooping as they cast their souls to the wild waves. Two white objects, floating away by a stroke of nature’s wand.
              
               The texture of my lily is… dry. Crispy. Lilting. It bears the scent of some foul creature’s skeleton, perished long ago and left to rot.
               As the petals fall to ashes in my palm,
               I lift my eyes during my prayer and no one is praying but me.

Such is the nature of idol worship.
              
              

              
              




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