Moonbeam (short fiction)

An idler on a mountaintop, dancing is something I do not do anymore. I have been in bed with somewhat of a ghost. I dared to daydream amidst a war that was stationed in my utopia. Now, it is a galore of phantoms. They want me to be a zombie in this forced reality. But I ask, How can I leave a legacy if I avoid my fantasy? I am not sure if Jesus is just another machine I do not trust, but I know hours are recorded in my eyes. In the interim, words conquered a poet, and thoughts grounded a bird.
The Earth and I have to immediately sever ties. We cannot forgive one another. What commenced as an intoxicatingly loving relationship overflowed like a volcano into one of egotistical hate. Upon each dawn, Earth inspired me to dive into its waters with dreamy gladness.
Now, like in the past few years, I have to struggle to stay awake and keep my nerves still. Earth and I resent one another for growing apart. I took it for granted and it continues to trap me. We are both to blame for our maddening courtship. It is a situation without a peephole. Its sky is a damp blanket over my head. It asks certain things of me that I fear accepting as part of my persona’s nature. I do not want to be an addicted reproducer. I do not wish to be a wealthy lord. I do not want to overcome my branchy sadness with fleeting, momentary jokes. I would rather overdose on orange seeds and be punctured by happy trees prospering from within.
The Earth says, “You’re a whore!” I say, “You’re too repressed” “You’re a fag!” “Your arms are too short for me” “You think too much!” “You don’t think enough.” We are each other’s unbearable and anarchic bleeding birthmark. We cannot even agree on that.
​June 6th is the 6th day I went without taking my medication. It was like a light bulb within me that most likely exploded already. It was like an unadulterated stream that I built a wall against, as I do for everything that attempts to navigate me outside myself. I have just made love to Adonis. He skipped his dosage as well, so to create enough vigor to experience a charged frenzy of zest. His light-colored and accentuated nude body has shut down beside me. He is barely breathing, yet I can hear his voice.
“We have to find the edge and transcend it,” he insists. “The new moon will be prepared to welcome us upon waking up there. We cannot go in a sailboat. We cannot have our bodies rendered painless and have our bodies shipped there. We will have to leave our bodies behind. We will emerge in fitter, invincible, glorified bodies. We cannot get there by airplane, for, if we knock, the sky will not answer. Therefore, we have to gather a lifetime of knowledge and be cunning. We cannot rely on logic or intelligence, for intuition will conceal our path. Not even abstract thinking will get us there. All it should take is a glimpse into one of the darkened locations within our bodies’ interior.”
When I hear his voice without being blessed with the chance to see his lips move, I wonder if I am being punished. I cannot conceive the notion that I could be unraveling. I could be the ethereal reciprocation of fundamental karma. I am suddenly unable to sleep during the day. There are obstacles like this everywhere. Adonis has been failing to correct his immunity to the touch of others, in the midst of his resisting existence. My hallucinations still hinder me from tapping into a sense of reality I am kept from trusting wholeheartedly. Time comes to a halt, like an essential appliance breaks down. I could save a life and be rewarded with an orange, but if I accidentally step on a bird, my hypothetical wings are painstakingly stretched and stapled to my legs. Karma seems like a heartless robot. It feels invasive to every one of my thoughts. But no one will tell me why I am being punished. My intangible self is being stoned. Every profound age, important date and lucky number is being ridiculed. I look at the time, and each moment curses me.
Strangely, it is Adonis’ voice that implants a rampant panic in my four chambers. This fear screams at me from my outside window. It pounds on every wall around me. It intensifies with the lowliest sound of water. I think to myself, My only chance is on the new moon.
This could be it. This new day like an orange tree could be a visibly blazing promise that every blind man can see. I could be forgiven, as the universe could bury my secrets and give a new heart to my dreams. The orange could smile when I lick it. The past was all just a nightmare. Therefore, I will never go back, I bring out pills because music has nothing to say anymore. A sunflower could be reborn. I’m sorry I cannot stay.
It’s like finding a bottled message with the secrets to being salvaged. It comes with an eye, because mine is feverish and cannot see me flying. I hallucinate freedom. I feel like a baby learning to pray. As I say my freedom prayer, may reality finally blow me away. May this vision lift me with mercy from this possession. My blood is thirsty for merging colors to transcend me. I am as a baby trapped in a testicle. I am crawling into the sounds of an eagle’s delirium. Now, there is no blessing I cannot receive because this apocalypse is as my weary heart believed it would be.
Sighing with relief, I unravel. I no longer have to dread abnormality I harbor, when I attempt to motion through normality. Although I was fortunate, there were still walls I was sparking laughter from. I sparked laughter, like I could prick my finger to bleed in a colorless garden. My humor even humanized auditory hallucinations with distinct laughter, but there still walls I could not maneuver around. I could not put my fingerprints on them. They did not care about what made me identifiable. The laughter I brought, therefore, is my one lasting contribution to this world. This world wants nothing less dramatic, and nothing more fulfilling than laughter. This is troubling because the presence of real laughter is short-lived, and the echo of a laughing memory disappears when trauma is rekindled.
On Earth, I have to wait for a dream to be realized, or realize it is just a dream. I can only anticipate being awakened from a slumber in which I presume waiting is forever. I am still waiting for a presence. It became somewhat omnipresent but I still wait for a body to gladly collapse into mine. I only wait because hope was suggested. It hinted at the coming of its arrival, just as making love suggests an advent of its own. I am still waiting in sky blue frustration. Now, I have to wait for time to pass, like hairy palms prevent me from being able to rotate the world faster. I could change the world, if this presence finally came along, like a fairy coming to grant me magic. I have to wait for the world to follow its own core before its mature enough to discover its inner-voice will never speak like the sun, discover its intuitive tools will always be hiding and out of the sun. Waiting, I could be climbing an orange, nutritiously dripping sky. I could be opening my eyes, like a mammal that was first brought into the blinded world. This world is an insane asylum I’m still waiting to be discharged from. I am still waiting for this Devil’s curse of a planet to fade into seventh heaven, the new moon.
The new moon will be a fresher, more praised version of lunacy. Some earthlings tag a profusion of creativity and fluorescently colorful flairs as crazy. The new moon, therefore, will be perceived as a celestial and infinite zenith of insanity. Everything will be too extreme and transcendent to be merely considered as abstract and eccentric. Winged, I will never have my orange feet on the sky-like ground. My senses will be literally and sensually heightened. My vision will overflow beyond an edge, as the lighting will radiate from behind me, focused and sufficient. Hallucinations will be divine and inspiringly fortunate. They will command me to follow my intuition until I am at my fullest. Underlining its nurturing insanity will be more of an alleviating mosaic. It should not be mistaken for an anarchy.
No more memories will be made. Those I carry with me now, especially the freshly scented ones, will dissipate into a miniscule legacy only the dirt I walked will recall. It will be as if I never looked at anyone or created anything. Occurrences on the new moon will be weightless. What it is to mourn and hesitate something brand new will not be thought of. Tears and happiness, two forms of drainage, will never be allowed across the borders. The past will be an empty well for eternity. Coming of age stories will always be mysteries. It will always be today, and today will have to rely solely on my blood for shades, tones and hues. Due to the absence of remembrance, life will start over in every earthly minute.
I will not have to wait any longer for the world to continue. It is as though it was waiting for my metaphorical evaporation to feel it is stable enough again to carry on. I never made a dent, an unforgettable impression, an effervescent stain, a poised legacy. Anyone who researches to write a biography about me will have to settle for a short, morbid statement: His own eraser did this. I am less than a syllable in the endless wordy judgments the voices pass about us all. When my mother looses me as a burden, she still has a blessing to live for. I will be blessed with an end. Another greedy soul will compensate for the loss of a consumer. Forgiveness will be deemed pointless because I was faithless. Those I followed will never think of facing a loss of one they looked for behind them. Minutes won’t be wasted, like the shedding of dead skin, on my psychologist’s orange sofa. Everyone can continue where they left off when they thought I was going to reach a destination. They will not have to think of me at all, in fact, for I will be traveling at the velocity of a homosexual moonbeam.
My addiction to this world will dissolve without any withdrawals. I will no longer find it essential to keep my cramping feet sanely to the ground. Nor will I need sexual relationships like a placebo for my manhood’s inflammation. I can finally shed the excess that keeps me from getting swiftly lost in the wind. There will be no darkness I once needed to lighten me up. I will not need the bright colors mixed into an antidepressant. My mind will already be a reflection, like everything else will be, of the orange cielo. I will not be dependent on feeling cold to protect my locked up, suffocating warmth. No longer will the world be addicted to torturing me, to stoning my spirit. I know firsthand how primitive this Earth can be when contending with aesthete. When I leave, the primitive Earth’s barrage will hit a dead end and suffer whiplash. The Earth and I could have never been enough for one another. It will always be famished for victims. If I do not rise above it, I will fall asleep in its victimizing hands.
I will not know if the new moon be a dream come true, because I will not remember my dreams like forgetting my capabilities. Although, my imagination could sketch its geography, climate and design. Its ground will be an exquisite resemblance of the sky, which will forever be orange. It is as if the flame of a candle froze to become a paintbrush and water colored the sky richly. The ground will look like the sky is dripping at all times. Only men will inhabit the new moon. We will be superior to Earth’s rainbows. Living off of sips of orange skies and weightlessness, every man’s body will be accentuated with tones any other man would gravitate towards. We will all have wings with color of outer space, so we unassumingly blend in with the rest of the universe. They will symbolize our connectedness and our origin of the same epiphany.
What the Earth calls a living will be virtually absent on the new moon, and no one will ever realize its absence. Everything will be of our own creation. Creative juices will be visible, as they will be utilized to fashion and fuse together adornments, muses, and things essential to our survival. The fittest survivors have only communication to credit. In spite of the tainted and ambiguous universe that surround them, no one will be oblivious to another, or be in the terminal dark about their truths. One truth will be that love has to be made by their own creative juices. We will not think to wait and let it discover us.
The wait is over. I was brainstorming for the least time-consuming exit from this planet that only squanders time. I was expecting a revelation, when it was purely common sense. It is sitting there in the medicine cabinet, like an hourglass I have to eat from. Devouring my time will break my internal clock and an awakening will pass me by. My spirit will thankfully crumble and courageously sift through my mattress, through the hill my home is comfortably set on, through the opposite side of the world, and pepper itself to be gathered on the new moon. No one will find either division of me. No one will sense our bodies rotting, as there is a ceaseless aroma of incense circulating our abandoned selves. My newly fused self will never be identifiable and targeted. I shall fast beforehand, as if my welcome into a new space and time will merely be a religious hallucination. I shall lay down obstacles like mousetraps for anyone who, by some otherworldly miracle, will opt to return me. Perhaps all lingering vagabonds got their start on a few extra capsules of Tresadone. Maybe this morbid way of rescuing myself is my most promising stomping ground yet.
I look at Adonis, and I am in a state of panic. An alarm in my alarm is being pulled. I was suddenly thirsty, but felt as though the world had run out of quenchers. I shake Adonis, like I wanted to throw a penny to water to see if it would tremble. “Adonis?” I say. I realize he has become my own historical statue. I smile. I could still hear his voice. “On the new moon, you will not need that life can jolt and stubbornly hold still,” he says, but his ocean blue lips are not moving. I open his eyes and they are in permanent shock, as though looking down or above is too dangerous. Perhaps I am being taught to never look up at the ceiling again, or to never turn away from my medication again. I took my eyes off of him when he was breathing. Now that he is not breathing, I want to see his painless nude body forever. Without giving the idea a second thought, I know Adonis will be taken to the new moon. Finally, there was a place in which I did not have to fear him. There will be motions to go through, no anticipation, and there will be nothing waiting in the wings.
There are reasons why I took happy pills. I purposely forget to swim to find the key on the limb of the sea. Then, I jump out to dry on the sun to know a moth’s last thrill. When I am floating in my own blood, it will be seen that in my soul was an unguided deluge. The tempest leaves my family tree dry, and the wildflower below must bid its hero good-bye. I play with a rope to hang on my hopes. I see a fire set to my shadow, and it spreads. I am sprinkled over where I could not tread. I was rejected by the sky, and I had to bid all my heroes good-bye. But, I know this is last time I will cry. After my last breath, I will have the power to fly. Perhaps I will return long enough to dry my mother’s pillow.


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