survivalist stories

once. long after abandoning my residency in my own closet…

i agreed to hide with someone else in hers.

from prior experience i understood what we would need to pack, to survive.

we would need flashlights.  we would need pillows, on which to rest our heads and our bones. because the sides of walls, the sharp right angle corners of cramped closets are uncomfortably abrasive. we would need quilts. and we would need blankets.  to cover overselves, because some time after darkness comes the bitter, unrelenting cold. and we would need vittles. but of the type that never spoil or perish.  or, either had an unnaturrally long shelf life. because there’s never any telling, how long circumstances will demand that you remain hidden there, silently in the closet.  and after a while, a rabid mind or stomach will demand that you start eating each other, before resorting to the last resort in a cannabilistic condition – which is the inevitable solution of eating yourself.

i forgot to bring batteries.  the lights went out.

it was terrifyingly, confusingly dark.  and the closet was crowded.

but, first… before that. 

i would turn the light on.  at times when we didn’t hear footsteps.

we didn’t hear breathing.  we were certain that we were alone, in our closet, without a speck or ounce of life near us, otherwise.  and then i would turn on the light… we would contort our fingers in front of the light and watch as shadow figures danced against the wooden walls. 

gigantic, exaggerated things. amplified light manipulation, exaggeration of shadows.

and at times… at times.  when we were certain every other inhabitant that lived in the house would be gone, to stay away for extended periods. like weeks or days.  we would venture out.  stumbling, at first, not accustomed to walking.

but, i would hold her. in my arms. and spin her around, in the light of the sunshine.  our own shadows, would dance against the walls of the house… much as the fingertip shadow figures flashlighted in our closet, did.  long, stretched, graceful against the drywall, she bloomed. a black ballerina. 

we ate pastries.  and licked the icing from our fingertips.  we drank liquor straight from the bottles, until we were wildly intoxicated. and fucked in open spaces.  her back against dewdrops and grass, and when she would cum… her nectar would glisten as the dew did.  sunlight contorted in drops of it, sticky, like residual spoils of the war against closets left clinging on grassy blades staked in the dirt ground of field, indicating conquest.  we warmed our bodies near fire.  leaping thirsty plasma flames of it, growling and growing, waning to embers.  and, in that glow. we lay, embryonic.  wrapped deeply, primal, innately within the womb that was only each other. we laughed, without taming it.  and at these times, when we were our selves and not our shadows.  the world was uncharacteristically full.

it was an impossible torture. when the crowd returned.  with gigantic eyes and tiny minds.  when fear returned as well.  fear, that in reality has always been so much smaller than love.  but, like most minorities, fear had been in power, empowered for so long, that it confused its own self and every entity around it. until all forgot the truth, and belived that fear was actually the majority.  we retreated.  as we always did. 

unleashed hearts chained, voluntarily, to a closet. oxymoronic right? oxygen and morons.

in a small dark space, crowded like that… even a tiny threat of light, is brilliantly blinding.

the darkness licks it up, crowds around it, grabs it in its arms… lapping. holding on, as if for dear life.

my legs got longer.  i grew taller. 

now.

even in the widest closets. i find that i am cramped.

i will love you loudly in the glow of the seemingly endless daytime.  and i will love you quietly, beneath the dark cloak of the night, the twinkle of distant stars racing pulled in close around our shoulders.

but.  

i have left my closet. and. i will not hide with you in yours.