Olive

My Lost Olive
(Written when I terribly missed someone)

There you are again, grinning that same grin – a mixture of mischief and cheer – flaunting that rusty pantene mane, and those tended eyebrows, fluttering lashes, and a lively breast, make me go crazy.

You sit in front of me every morning, at an exact time, at an exact place, at an exact mood, at the exact urge of my sexuality. You were always there; the olive skin of your back always exposed. I wanted to touch you, taste every inch of you, and see if when I licked the magnificent under curves of your breasts, you’d taste like café latte.

I saw you one day; I was slumped at the cold polished cement of the busiest building. You were walking alone, looking lost. One hand stroked your hair, the other held at your most precious bag, which I can’t even afford to hold in fear of staining. Then you sat down at the floor, and we were leveled by the earth.

I looked at you, stole glimpses of you, and fed my mind with the erotic fantasies of seventeen years of maturity. I never ceased recording the nuances of your being, for I fear that you will one day belong to someone else. So I continued, until someone with contrastingly pale skin, broad shoulders, and kempt hair finally blocked my view.

The next day, you did not fail me. You sat in front of me, flaunted unconsciously, pushing those young protrusions on your chest outwards, arching your lithe shoulders in an angle where the sun illuminates your luscious body. You flirted, calling my stagnant libido to rise and give praise, to throb with certainty, to burn with an unquenched longing, and to cry in the end, after so much pressure.

Then came our last day – the last of those days when I am sure you’ll take a seat at the chair in front of mine, and flirt yet once again. Now is finally the day when the grab bag is full of chances. I wanted to grab one, but my charged mind was working for academics instead of love. Then the test, then silence, then you were gone. I just submitted the last drops of my thinking fluid, and I watched as you walk away, with the same gait, the same sway of hair, the same demeanor – mischievous yet cheerful. Now, not only my libido was crying, for cold streaks of invisible tears swam down my cheeks, staining the yellow of my skin.

We would have looked good together; your olive against my taupe. The contrast inspires me, excites me, and arouses me. Our fusion is gold: I could highlight your already glowing skin, I could add the waves in your straight flowing hair; I can put a more mischievous slant in your expressive eyes, I could inject extra red in your puckered lips, and I can give you the complement of your femininity. Our union is gold, but the chances now lie in a hard diamond cocoon – forever growing, but never hatching.

+++

My Lost Taupe

There you are again, grinning that same grin – a mixture of mischief and cheer – flaunting those rusty flowing curls, and those arched eyebrows, and flirting eyes, make me go insane.

You sit behind me every morning, at an exact time, at an exact place, at an exact mood, at the exact urge of my sexuality. You were always there; the fair skin of your face always frowned in a very boyish way. I wanted to touch you, taste every inch of you, and see if when I kiss those kissable cheeks, you’d taste like white wine.

I saw you one day; I was walking at the corridors of the busiest building. You were slumped at the shiny floor, surrounded by a horde of people which I labeled as your friends. One of them was constantly staring at you, and giggles slightly so that you won’t recognize. One of your hands caressed your ears, where two little round earrings are studded; the other hand is at another girl friend’s hand who was joyously fondling those knowing fingers. I decided to sit down at the floor, and we were leveled by the earth.

I looked at you, stole glimpses of you, and fed my mind with the erotic fantasies of nineteen years of maturity. I never ceased recording the nuances of your being, for I fear that you will one day belong to someone else. So I continued, until someone with pale skin, feline shoulders, and raven hair finally blocked my view.

The next day, you did not fail me. You sat behind me; seeing through my mirror, I saw how you fidgeted boyishly, exuding a rebellious aura against the mathematical hieroglyphics scrawled at the board. You flirted, calling my stagnant libido to constrict and pay homage, to throb with familiarity, to burn with the waters of nature, and cry in the end, after so much pressure.

Then came our last day – the last of those days when I am sure you’ll take a seat at the chair behind mine, and flirt yet once again. Now is finally the day when the time is so slow to give us space to get to know each other. I wanted to stop time and make the first move, but my charged mind was working for academics instead of love. Then the test, then silence, I realized my feet were already carrying me outside after waiting for your first move. I just submitted the last morsels of my intellect, and I cannot watch how I abandoned you, with the same fidget, the same carefree stance, the same demeanor – mischievous yet cheerful. Now, not only my libido was crying, for cold streaks of invisible tears swam down my cheeks, staining the chrome of my skin.

We would have looked good together; your yellow against my tan. The contrast inspires me, excites me, and arouses me. Our fusion is gold: I could color your very bright skin, I could lengthen the curls of your hair; I can put more expression in your hidden eyes, I could inject extra pucker in your red lips, and I can complement your masculinity. Our union is gold, but the chances now lie in a hard statue of corundum – always there, but never moving.

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Redefined

I am part of the ideology… Difference is me.

~0~

Silence is my dwelling place. My soul exits the Gateway only when there is silence. Why silence? Because more than 300 days ago, I found the useless power of words, the lameness of speech, and the betrayal of words. Since then, I never used words to unleash my anger, because what anger is to me might be submission to them, just because of the fragility of words. Since then, I buried the soul. Keneth, the child with outlandish curls, the child who created worlds through words, the child who believed in the hidden alliance of the mind and speech, died – of grief, because depression can kill. From his dead soul rose the renewed specter – wiser, more resilient, bold, critical, yet quieter, steadier, unmoved. This is the new persona – a spirit formed by the transition of the mind from social to seclusion, the corporal metamorphosis, and the realization of the pathos. Thus, a new life sets forth – and he shall be called Mephisto, literature’s devil, but reality’s observer. I… shall… be… called… Mephisto.

Beauty redefined me. From the child who dismissed things as ugly most of the time, I developed the eye for beauty and beauty is not fame, nor glory. It is sincerity – a genuine facet of humankind. I find beauty in everything. Everything is impressive, as long as everything exudes a genuine feeling of self-belief. I find beauty in a trash can, on tattered clothes, on outlandishly curled hair, on black skin, on pink albino eyes, on the ecstasy of playing video games, on poems, on literature, on senility, on food, on disease, on death, and on everything that was created.

I am the one who sees beauty first, and this sets me far from the people of today…

~0~

I am the student of Humility. What others deem as a simple virtue, is a grand design to me. Humility is salvation, an element of the psyche that creates a barrier from provocative diabolic forces. It is a screen, a mask that Keneth failed to develop – the fatal failure. Humility is the basics of White Pride. You dress down one day, expecting ridicule, but instead you make an impression, a notion that would surely last. And this impression would define you as the “different”, “the deviant”, and with praise, they would end calling you “the enigma.”

The highest honors…

~0~

My priority would include the very basics of existence: food, clothing, and shelter. Food is a new element of my being. While others abhor too much eating, I find the simple joys of filling the belly, satisfying the animalistic side of being human. This is my simple claim on humanity, because I fear that the world of tomorrow will no longer be the world of humans. Instead, it will be infested by a new race called the Superficials…

Clothing is another new element of my being. And by clothing, I mean clothing – the produce of nature that would emphasize the beauty of the body, and protect it from the harsh wrath of the Mother. Clothing should be a natural given that would serve the purpose of making the body comfortable, making the body free of any constraints so that the body may function efficiently in its task of being the steward of the world. I heed this as important because the people of today are blind to this definition. The people of today see clothing as an accessory, an external entity that creates competition, if not envy or hatred.

Lastly, Shelter. The home. It is the final addition to my survival kit. It is where I would establish my powerhouse, the faculty of my reason, my belief, my faith, my emotions, my scripted response to the world beyond… Keneth did not survive the world because he had no shelter – no home. And as a child left to the harsh cruelties of an unforgiving life, he would surely die. Now, I have a home. The Gateway nurtures me, and I feel the home now more than ever.

~0~

Finally, Silence. Silence is music to my ears. It is a melody that eases the pressure of noise (the plunders of the world, the uninvited visitors to the party of the peaceful mind). Silence would free me. It would liberate me from the claws of insanity, where Keneth once succumbed – to death.