A weed whacker droned in the bustle outside her cozy world of darkness. She was in no hurry to shake off the drowsiness.
He had loved her. In the dream.
And she him.
But in the world of the insistent weed whacker, they remain friends. She longed for the simplicity of them making love with no hurry or purpose because their world would cease to exist at any moment, and they would never have been. So none of it mattered. Which made it both pure, and sad.
Love was a far off ideal for her. So perfect and seamless there was no possibility of it existing in her world without killing everything else it touched. Killing him. The only one she could see herself making such a mistake with.
Pushing one arm under her, she rolled off of her stomach and onto the cat nestled at her side. The lawnmower of love, telling her to stay. Be cozy. Be happy. Be nonexistent, but love me. She is my love, but not by any design. A twist of fate, like happening upon a flower garden, and deciding to care for it. It is a simple thing to give the plants what they need for life, and you find you gleam your own contentment from it. So you and your flower garden are content with each other. Blissfully unaware of the other's purposes, coexisting in ignorance.
Except my flower garden of love wants me to stay in bed. And I need to go make something of my life. Because the dream won't.
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3 comments:
Hey, mitch, very intriguing story. Is it part of a bigger story? Perfection causing destruction--that's a great theme.
BTW, thanks for the link to my blog :-)
Joy
Wow, incredible. Your writing has gotten very very good!
Joy - no, not part of anything else, just somthing I was fiddling with, it actually spawned from a dream I had.
Tammer - thanks! *g*
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