Eleven Years with Gloam
Years ago, if I can remember time at all, I made a mistake. One fickle mistake. One flippant momentary lapse of judgment that any ordinary day-walking, earth-turning, time-fumbling person might callously allow themselves. Yet I, and I alone in my stupidity, unwittingly, and unknowingly was the one to make it. But let me say here and now, while I have any last grasp of human consciousness that it was a mistake. A terrible and irreversible mistake.
You see, I was like you once. A sun-kissed, womb-nurtured, hat-wearing, key-toting, nine-to-five average. I sat up every morning to an unforgiving sun baking my flushed skin through my bedroom window. I lathered myself with doses upon doses of foams and oils. I fitted myself in bright seasonal garbs- in yellows, and greens, and ceruleans, and crimsons. Oh how I miss those crimsons! But something dim happened to me, or I happened upon something dim.
There was a time when I would give anything for a nights rest. For a pillow that didn’t pull at my cheek like a cat’s tongue. For a body that could lie horizontal with steady slumber. For a few hours where I retreated easily into my bed’s horizon- where I could peer out of my window, salute the sunset, and nod knowingly. But my body and I were always in disagreement. My body always seemed at odds with the general way of things. Human nature was running on a clock that ticked too slowly for me, and I was always left waiting for the hour hand to come round again. Somewhere in time, man and the world shook hands on a deal, and I was the unqualified wager.
Then one casual evening, I changed. As the neighborhood people retired to their cozy bundles, yawning out their nightly affirmations, and shutting their lids to block out what they were not meant to see, I surrendered to my devastating consciousness, and stood peering- wide eyed and fixated. I wouldn't protest any longer. I wouldn't return to the pressing hours of linen turmoil. There would be no more struggle from me. If twilight's lullabye failed to sedate me, then I would harness the night- my very worst idea, in retrospect.
see 'results' for the next part of the story.
Created: Jan 28, 2011May_McDonough Document Media