191: Not a Soul left to Witness my Display of Love still Living

It all began in the night. I am certain it could’ve been one of the days in a week; by at this point in my life I had ceased counting time entirely. I was walking to my favorite bar. I was surrounded by familiar faces. These faces were smiling. I couldn’t understand what was so funny about the world we were playing in. I suppose at some point play takes every form. As soon as we step off the playground we’re already downtown. David was swinging like child, feels like yesterday. But than, so does everything else. I don’t trust this feeling. I have a strong theory that I’ve been testing. But that’s a conversation for the evening to come. I shall not waste it on you before you’re listening. It shall be heard. I have my mind on someone in particular. Of course, she a girl I once knew. Of course, the love was unrequited. But that’s not entirely true. Mostly, this story is a lie. I’m not lying; this is based completely on real life events. But my truth is not to be shared with you. So my story must remain entertainment. For your eyes only and then you must live in your own mind. I cannot assume my perspective. That’s absurd! I live to reflect you, to be reflected by you. “You are not here to serve!” I yell this at the top of my lungs as soon as I enter the building. The guy at the door regrets letting me in. He makes a threatening gesture. But I can’t take him seriously with that dumb stare he’s offering. I’m looking him dead in the eyes. I could’ve sworn I saw something alive. He recognizes my smile and turns white. Did he assume he’d died? What a strange place I’ve wandered into. Am I still in the right city? Where is home again. “Dove” I whisper. Dove is home. I quickly realize I am on the wrong floor. I stick out my tongue at my general audience and run up two flights of stairs. I scream again, but I’ve already forgotten my line. “It’s empty! Life is but a vision. My dream. There is only infinite space and I. And you are but a figment of your own imagination. You are only a thought of mine. Are you thinking what I’m thinking? Are you willing to fathom existence? Wont you try! What could possibly be more important to you? You want to keep filling sticky glasses with poison and watching it slip down the throats of a hundred thousand more boys than you’d ever care to give your service to? Do any of them choke the way I do? I’m too curious for my own good, I know. But don’t deny yourself the only bit of living left inside you. Imagine the chair in the far right corner. Imagine me in it. Imagine the towel in my back pocket. Imagination is vivid, isn’t it? Sharper than real life motion, picture this. It’s a picture over our bed. A photo of me naked on my hands and knees dead center that bar before opening day. Not a soul to witness my display of love, still living. Picture the end. Picture a day where this space is for rent and whole business of serving goes extinct. Imagine that the entire floor is ours, every inch of that bar top at the disposal of the creative power of desire and pleasure within. Imagine the animalistic tendencies persevere above all else. Imagine killing or being killed. Would you do it? Which would you rather, bending me over from the side of serving, or being served? Both feel the same to me. No matter which role I’m playing, I am always at your mercy. Time and time again I climb this fucking staircase! The place is gutted and robbed of memory. I’m always crying out. I’m always in need. I will never stop loving. Despite the self-degradation, I will remain vulnerable. I have nothing else to give this place except love. Unabashed! Fearlessly displaying the ghost of a love that once lived inside of your very own flesh and bones. Don’t you miss her?” No I don’t. Missing requires me to separate time, and that I have simply denied as a possibility any longer. She’s staring at the back of his neck. She’s trying imagine serving herself. She’s behind the bar. But the timing was wrong. I was trying to break the wheel and keep it still. I repainted the picture a thousand times. But I am a storyteller. I always walk into the right place at the wrong time. I always say something grand. But no one is ever listening in the moment. The bar I’m standing in is deathlike. Empty. The echo is perfect. But I was screaming too loud. The love I was trying to fathom was downstairs, with a bad attitude, pouring more poison, cursing the sound of freedom. She was hard headed and determined to make it out alive. But every time she found an empty room all she wanted to do was cry. Every time she saw my love she was reminded, she must retrieve her own. Dejected and exhausted I make my way back down from last bit of energy remaining between us. “I release you.” She whispers into someone else’s mouth. I set you free to find your love. I give mine willingly. I was right when I threw a fit the first time. I am here as a gift, a sacrificial demonstration. I am alone. Reflect me perfectly and the servitude will cease to exist.