Asghar Abbas's Blog - Posts Tagged "always"

I've come across so many wanderers during my numerous travels to the far reaching places. Straying strays like a perfectly stray thought that would always conquer the night, were those who roamed alongside me, constantly at my side. Constant companions constantly misplaced beside me in the distant lands that kept finding us together. We had each other and the others didn't matter. It was a war especially painted by us.

It had been an exemplary errantly to be sure; elegant, enormous, erroneous. Happily erratic we were through it all though. Drunk we were on familiar stars too, like a lucky number that never brought us any luck.

Only rain it gave us, and not the good kind. Wayfaring by the wayside we were waylaid often. Then we were gone. We were like a nebulous defeat, graceful in shame. Who could blame us, we were always a little wayward for other people's taste. Something else was always more to our taste, something refined, something unreal, something unkept. A little wild. Rebellious. Irreligious. We were no solution, we had no solution for this, for an unneeded heart. What else can we do about this, but what to do, about an unwanted, unwarranted, an uneventful mind.

We are holding a well lit matchstick, but what's the point, everyone around us is blind, ironically blinded by our own light. This one right here, that we're holding, can't you see what we are illuminating. We only know how to retreat, that's what we do best. What we must do now.

We, you and I, we always assumed we were that errant ghost and not her. But only she seems to possess the gift. A dark knife, her fingers wrapped around the bone hilt. Don't twist it gently. The moon is crowding us, but we'd tell her we want to earn all her smiles, and we'd say to her, the sun is about to vanish and disappear somewhere behind the blood of her name.

We, you, and I, not her- maybe her, just her. Look at her, she's glowing because she's numinous, she's fading because she is not there at all. She's inching ever closer, she is leaning forward, and yet we are the ones who are disappearing from sight.

We absolutely adore how all the animals, mythical and extinct, move her in a way that is honest. In a way she is not. Like that, that way. There. Not here. The bats in their caves love her. She knows very well how to make all the hirsute beasts grotesquely happy. She does. She is doing that right now. All the Blind Ants are seeking her out too, every single one of them, looking for her, trying to see her and her alone. The remaining bees want to do her too. On the flip side, she loves sprinkling dead beetles on her frozen ice cream, she does. That's how she twists all her endings. That's how she likes it. She's trapped, tapered candle that she is, a beeswax statue that won't melt away.

I am glad we didn't get her the flowers she had demanded when we met her yesterday, that makes me so happy. She didn't protest too much, she was busy not being there. What a loser, amIright? I mean, aren't we, right? Us or her. I wish we knew her in November. I wish I could make her stay in February. But remember, how when she was there, we were somewhere else. We were home. What about her own dwellings though. She could live without her beloved grotto, she is already living outside it. Remember, how she was worried about her nonexistent paintings. Her paintings forever left a mark, either on our walls, or on our mind. A gentle impression gently impressed upon time like an egg yolk bringing out the vermilion color.

How they used to do that in the days of yore. Yoking something together, keeping it stitched, holding all three of us together. You, me, her, we all share a certain kinship, maybe even a fellowship bizarre as that is. She was always less than a friend and more than a random person. It's a strange relationship. For sure. Over, but still there. Still happening, still flowering.

It's a good thing she is not that possessive, though more often than not she'd declare herself jealous and would remain aloof and quiet within herself. Even when all of us would be sharing her rickety bed under her thatched roof. All we lacked then was the rain, and the midnight shoes.

Her shyness fouling her breath notwithstanding, it's always better when she wants to kiss us, especially when she's already doing that. So good. It's so good. Feels too good. After all, at this point in this story, we should be kissing her and she was supposed to kiss us by now. That's just too bad. We no longer want to exchange anything liquid with her.

In the middle of her kiss, she'd make fun of us though. Her fingers look misshapen and broken. Her skin always misspeaking. The rindle of it all a little misleading. Her breath brittle and colorful. Even with us, she was empty. Never full, never sated. Rarely there at all.

She was alone, she wasn't afraid. She wasn't afraid to be alone. It was just that the cat was chortling and its laughter was human. Very. But cats alone could absolve her of things she wanted to do. Of crimes she almost didn't commit. She could walk like us, but at least she knew how to remain lost. Stay gone, she would, she could, she can, she will. And her Cat knows her all too well, her cat knows her, what she had promised, her cat knows that too. Promises made to cats are best kept. They are. They better be. Blacken the bettors will be if they are not fulfilled. She was not disloyal, she knew that. She always kept her Word. That would be her undoing. She knew that as well. She was oddly okay with that. It was fine. She could only hope her cat knows that as well.

She was always the invisible middle between the two of us, always.

Churning many things, we stirred within the woods and all the boughs shook, we didn't fell her, but fall she did anyway. She fell. She lay there felled. Right underneath us. Sprawled out under us, unrepentant she was quivering. Under the covers, under us, her dress black as night was ripped, she had that done that herself. She was in rags to begin with. Though what she was mourning, we do not know, she was the only one not alive.

She was only couple of patches and bruises short of being a rag doll. But that was okay, we were scarecrows ourselves, stuffed with not straw but with Something Else. Though we were the perfect straw-man, both of us. But we didn't scare her, did we and she loved the murder of crows, she did.

In this real life, she wasn't moving under us, but we weren't amused, she couldn't deceive us, not really. She played dead only too well, she knew how to do that, she did it so well. She would lie still for the longest period of time, she did smile the saddest song. Even her breathing was fake, like counterfeit gold. She could be very convincing when she wanted to be, when she bestirred herself that is. She once made Death doubt itself and she already had the living fooled. She was absurdly proud of that, giddy even. For the nonce, she was beneath us, but she was not the one who was helpless here, she never felt powerless under us, she wouldn't, she could just as easily reach out and snap our neck. Thinking of wringing our neck does quell something ancient in her.

She is not the only one who could caress the corpses, but she doesn't have to do that anymore. She wasn't alone anymore, she didn't want for company. Though she didn't want company. Any. Ever. But we were not leaving her out of our sight, she was out of our mind, out of time, outcast of time, she was.

Why?

Well.

She was a woman, therefore she was a story. But as a story she started ten thousand years ago, five thousand years before the recorded history begin recording, before all that was false was written down in the dying false light. Stay calm, it's only cool chilled chiliads, so chill out so.

She got going and became legend. Pretty much like how the story about an ark carrying the dinosaurs got started back then, back in the day when the days were young and people still human. Tilting to one side, where that little dinghy would have berthed? You tell me that. The boat beached on the deserted sand dunes, where it could. Where it was all possible. To begin anew. Now get off the boat. But what the boat disgorged and the only thing that disembarked was stale Faith and fossilized Belief. Which were immediately hijacked by corrupt priests who would promptly sully the soul, so resentful of people who had nothing, which they couldn't wait to take from them. They had already robbed them of their wits, poor buggers, their victims were spoiled by these preexisting priests, vilify their subjects they do, vile these creatures mostly men are, corrosive their touch. Fuck them, but don't fuck them. You don't need a soothsayer to tell you that much.

Once they are dethroned, and they will be, for sooner or later they will overreach themselves, they always do. Beguiling, belligerent, greedy, aggressive, foolish buggers that they are. Fools die, yes, then why are these fools still around, wasting oxygen. Stupid they are. Once they are ousted, they'll bolt, they will. Just watch. When they are running, soon they'll be on the run, for they love fleeing from fights, do not, I repeat do not give them any sanctuary. They'll work from within to destroy you and wreck your peace of mind for a piece of mind. Spare them no quarter. They do not deserve leniency, they do not deserve clemency, they are full of calumnies, all the lies, only for you. Kill them all and their ilk, all the kings, queens, white rabbits, princess, princes in the towers, every single one of them, slay them all. They all belong in the deepest pits of hell. Only when they are there then we'll be truly free. It's just a little saddening that before reaching their final resting place in their frail finality, they opt to make our lives a living hell, fuckers. I do rescind, I rescind, I rescind, I do, and they forfeit. Cowards, fuck them.

This is where we are now.

And.

So, to be clear. It's not just about the ruthlessness of her still beating heart and the Pretty Persuasion of her Cunt, the sweetness of it. It's not just about that, we want to make sure that's understood. It's about more than that.

What's it's about though?

Look at her hands, we are, her middle finger is crooked and bent like her utmost desire to maintain the toxicity of eugenics. That will be her unbecoming. The only one feeling untoward her in any way is her own self. That's why she avoids mirror most days. Her imaginary friends are all alone with her. They are deeply worried about their safety and concerned about her flavor, feverish in their mindless hope .

The sun is about to go down, not on her that's up to us, what we do, that's our thing, but it is about to be eclipsed by her reddened moods. The moon is already in very her name but it is feeling mutinous tonight. Her fingers does remind us of wolves. Or maybe they remind us of a certain wolf. One Wulf. Me or you? Or maybe just her. Why not. Only One of us has the silver blade.

No more. Her. No more. No more chances, She wasn't waiting for no Monsters, no Men. Monsters no longer interested her, certainly no Men. This was her world, she had no need of them. She wasn't sending for them. She was done. Waiting. She was done. With them.

However, she does have a soft spot for me maybe even for you, silly girl. She could be so sentimental sometimes. That's stupid, and she's not prone to making mistakes like us. That's not like her. Anyway, we're not backing down just because she's stupid enough to let us in. Trickle of water we are not, no, more like a deluge we will be. Yum. Like that.

In the fever of her dreams, in the pitch of the battle raging in her mind, she did offer to provide us with sexual favors. And we had planned on doing so many sexual things with her. For she makes us feel good about the things we do to her. And the things we do for her are naturally rewarding.

She is looking at us. Face fuck me, Finn.

When she says it like that, how can we resist, how could we refuse. She is watery enough to coax us out of our skins and we are not wearing enough of that. But. We are not. Doing that.

However.

Still looking at us, her eyes on us, eyes only for us, for me. Not my language. Not my religion.

And we are never leaving her ever again. Where do we sign. We sighed.

She wrapped her pudgy fingers around us, and squeezed me into existence. You already exist, even if you do not exist and there is no exit, and only this hell. Though majority of men, and some women, do believe in you despite your convoluted message. What's funny is that they are only the figment of your imaginations. What's even funnier is, it all works in spite of all that, precisely because it does not work at all.

What matters is that we, well I exist within her now. Therein I rest in the womb. And now that I do, I wonder where would our kisses fall on her body, we do want to kiss her everywhere.

The dream of having her nipple in our mouth will no longer remain just a dream. We are already taking it in our mouth.

She is making some sort of noise. But with all the extra white noise in the background, it is kinda hard to tell what exactly is she saying. She already sounds a little in love with us. We love her, but we are not in love with her. However, I am sure she can urge us to get there. All we can do is feel her skin, read the cursive ink on her body, but it's in Russian. What is it with her and her inkblot hearts?

We are confident we can get her with child.
We can get a child on her.
Well, I am going to put a baby in her.

Not you though. You had your chance and you kinda blew it. It didn't work out quite so well for you last time, did it?

Move over, it's my turn now. Deal with it. Get out of my way. Your racket is obsolete, buddy, you are done with it. Find a new one, though beware, people like thinking now. Not many, not much, but enough to give you pause.

At last, at the last moment, finally after our happiness and the struggle not to be happy anymore, we finish off on her face. Anything rotten, most things are rotten in this life, she gobbles down eagerly, hurriedly. Slow. Down. Girl. What's your hurry. Oh, there's your fire. Between the swallows we lingered on her tongue. She did swallow all the new suns like the ones in the Library at Mount Char. She does. She did. She is doing it still. And then casually, she wiped our heirs from her face. Though she took off most of her face along with us while she was doing that. She wrung most of her face, but left some of her name in the wake of her selfish actions.

It's near gloaming, when she was done wintering, and yet it's still summer. The passage of time dwindling, in the dimming of the hours, she was saying something. She had strung together some words. She was definitely speaking coherently this time. She was enunciating rather nicely. Her pheromone cult intact and cult of her personality not at risk nor damaged. So what was it that she was saying ?

Tomorrow is so far away. She seems to be saying. You can expect this and more from me. She would say to us.

She spoke. She spake.

Did we know? Yes. Are we going to tell you? No.

Not for real. Not her real words.

She spat some words, best believe that. Her words upon ours feel like her breath on our face. Words upon words, still such an acoustic prayer. It is.

Why is it that she is the only one yet to see her own face. She remains faceless to herself. She is the only who hasn't seen her.

She loved us, she did, we have to give her that. It didn't mean much, it didn't mean anything at all. It sure as hell wasn't enough. Her love. But she did love us.

To get inside her, we tell her we love her too. To get inside, we love being inside her. Maybe we mean it too. One thing is for sure, she doesn't mean well. She could whisper to the gods, it was worrisome, because they were listening. Warble of her mist, the color of dead leaf deafening and deadening.

The only chink in our armor was that reminding us of her otherworldly features and very pert but human qualities takes us out of our narrative that we are trying to pull here.
It is unsettling, disorienting, disquieting, disconcerting. We surely don't like being reminded she is human too. That is too much like when she jettisons us at dawn from her warped dreams, as much as it reminds us of pulling out of her. No wafer for us. Who is riding that lone dragon?

Look, listen here. We are not asking her anything we are not comfortable doing ourselves. What we are asking her to give up, we have already given that up. Up in the air, within the clouds. She didn't even have to ask us, she just didn't ask us.

What could she separate? Really. She is quite apt at making do. She makes do with all the make belief, does she not. She neither made that, nor she believed in. She is the magic she does not believe in, all the horses are whispering to her.

Monsters fall in love too, you know. We know. But she fell in love with a Monster at midnight. Who could that be? Not you, you are too busy dealing with all those thoughts being lobbed at you in utter disbelief. So, it has to be me. I am the only logical choice. The only one willing to be a monster. No one has gotten hurt by her imaginations just yet, what's the worse that could happen. For it has already happened. She is in love with me. I still want to remain a part of this trinity. Though she is quite nonugly. But I don't want any part of this ugliness. It's over, buddy. We cannot steal anything from her now, least of all a kiss. She Is Dead. The knife is getting deeper, though she has let go of it.

So the fine folks in their finest finery over at the Kongos are right. Repetition is the key, so repeat after me.

Poison is prejudice
Poison is prejudice
Poison is prejudice
Our Creed is Cold
Your prejudice is poison
and it is killing only you

We mustn't relent and give in. Cave in. We must make room for both our dry ideologies. Must house them under the same roof. Hope that we can tolerate what is designed not to be. Learn to coexist and live together. Learn to surrender.

Improve. Impel. Enliven. Grow. Stay. Don't stray. Make ugly babies. All of that.

As for her? She'll be fine without us. She is doing just fine on her own. Already on her next voyage. Water welcoming her warmly. Everything wet and in denial of her reach. She never needed us and she is taking something of me and from me.

But not from you, or of you, Haha!

Fuck, what were you thinking. Back to the annals, off you go stupid. I'll see you every other aught.

As for her. Again. Where ever she will end up, it will be like coming home for her.

While she is here. Well, that's a different story. For she is a different woman here.

She cannot stay here much longer, she simply can't. She must leave before this strange house becomes familiar. Before she herself becomes a familiar stranger in her home. She is going, her kin is waiting. She wins this time. She cannot remain stuck in this unknown darkness, she just can't.

At least now, by now we don't have to wonder how wondrous she tastes. We don't have to keep thinking about that, wondering, we don't have to go on like that.

Her home is shimmering toward her.

She won.

She never played.

She stayed.

I won.

You lost.

Now it's a story.

Complete.

Ég elska þig hreint, ég geri það

Yes, see you are a wolf girl, you should be running wild in the woods right now. Moon and wolds are in constant struggle to claim you. I hope better dreams find you tonight. I truly do. Wolfmoon is out tonight, it's really beautiful, all the direwolves are lined up for a little running in the wolds. She had her Trees; tall and gallant, her hand snitched tapestries of wolves and wolds, she had with her, her patched up red cloak, she owned her own imagery, she had her pagan interests- she was content. Even though she had a major problem with faulty memories she still missed the mountains. And the mountains cold and misty without her, awaited her return. She cannot do it any longer. Her brokenness couldn't fix the moon anymore. But that was fair, it's alright. The wolves were no longer inspired by her. She made them feel like strangers in their own woods. She had made wolds strange for them. What was familiar for them was gone and yet she was still there, a familiar stranger, still strangely familiar.