Saturday, March 29, 2008

Cold Mountain Ghosts

She was a ghost, but I wanted her anyway.

Being with her was like fucking nothing, as if coming nearer only revealed that her self was an illusion, something you could never quite touch, like the surface of a cloud. The nearer I got to her, the harder it was to make out her outline.

She could not be held, could not be pinned down or defined without causing her to flow elsewhere. To tighten your grip would only serve to let her escape more easily.

I often mused to myself that when she was around I felt even more alone. The lust she inspired in me was something cold, something intricately frozen, beautiful like a snowy sodium-lit night, slick street dangerous to drive. The appearance of brilliance only came when all things were carefully blanketed in frozen white.

The ageless iciness in her exterior, frozen and crystalline, made me feel as if what was inside of me was just an icy reflection of what I saw.

Like it, I was subtly melting.

When she did let me touch her, the heat of our bodies melted us both and we flowed into and upon one another. Inside I thawed for her; outside she for me.

Every time I had her, I knew she was like a force of nature, a mountain, and one day she would be an avalanche; an entirely new fa├žade would be revealed when the dust settled. And every time we fucked--it was too coldly passionate and hard a thing to be called by another name--I was working away at the glaciers, melting them bit by bit at their base.

I always thought of her frigid expression, her smooth, pale exterior in those times, not realizing until later how cold I was inside. Though outwardly acting otherwise, at times I was seen for the cold and bitter wind that I was, like a draft in a crevasse deep in a glacier.

It was a deeper sort of cold than she was ever capable of.

The closer we became, the more gone she seemed to be. Perhaps that was her way of warming up, becoming invisible and gaseous, as if she sublimated directly from solid to vapor, giving the liquid stage a pass and becoming intangible.

She would turn me on until it was too much, then she would not satisfy me, leaving me feeling empty, disappointed.

I think this was what I wanted; I wanted to be pushed toward or away from nihilism, I wanted to feel the ironically amplified loneliness of being with this woman, this spirit, yet feeling no companionship.

When you stare long into the abyss...

I wanted to see the equivalence of pleasure and non-pleasure, being and non-being, and she gave me this. I saw nightly that my satisfaction meant nothing, my desires rendered meaningless and lust rendered impotent.

I sought self-destruction from the inside out and I sought it inside of her, but I proved to be the colder of us.

She caved, she avalanched and what was revealed was changed, was warmed by the sun's rays, was open and majestic, not covered in ice any longer.

In the short time that followed, I saw what she saw. I saw that I had become a monster, and her clarity of vision revealed that her very feeling that had developed for me had changed her, yet because of it she saw now that I was clearly not what she had thought.

The ice over her eyes had melted and the distortion of the world had abated. She had changed but I was the victim; I then seemed to evaporate as she ceased to give me what I wanted. She had become corporeal, and saw me for the insubstantial specter I was.

Soon I drifted away, blown by cold winds, and she saw nothing more of me, myself losing nothing; she had ceased to appeal to me once she began trying to please me.

Buried under the avalanche of her once jagged, icy peaks, I lay smothered, my grave unmarked and unremarkable as my spirit, still dark and cold as the place I was lain under, dissipated.

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