Volumes where the golden insect crawled fetch glory by the yard, but there is no communication between the ink and the eye, for try as they might, libraries cannot express the depth of what they lack in emotion. Sharp-toothed keys assist the explorer in gaining entry to a world renowned for its emptiness, but there is never any action in the quotidian balance. Read, read, read, they said. However, he was left alone to ponder the fruitlessness of his desperation. Sadly, Hugo observed the declination of reason as three virgins giggled and proceeded to retain their innocence, which, by the way, was neither innocent nor retainable. They must have known what was on offer without the experience, he calculated, for there was guile in their laughter. One of them, she of the radiant halo, dipped and scooped up the golden spider leaving only its latest unreadable tome in a web of silky verbosity. Virgin or muse, he could not tell. Still, he was news once again without the slightest perception of validation. Everything he touched glowed and shimmered in an ephemeral way. Yet, he never doubted all was at their behest.
Popping, he shriveled almost immediately and shortly thereafter he noticed he was losing hair again and there were liver spots.
Chimera
2 Comments to “Chimera”
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Sounds like a typical day. I so get the line, “Everything he touched glowed and shimmered in an ephemeral way.” Most likely this character needs to take a huge risk, kiss a virgin or choke her in a “web of silky verbosity.” I think risks are like exercise; they take a lot of hoarded energy, but the reward is a long-lasting glow, even when we don’t get the hard body we imagined. It’s putting ourselves out there that counts. No regrets.
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I feel like you gave me a front-row seat me in a library watching schoolgirls, whose innocence (if it wasn’t faked) would end soon. None of it is relevant to them — neither the yards of books or the aging reference librarian (teacher?) who pops, then shrivels and becomes aware of his own mortality. Quotidian balance? HA! The only balance in that world is derived from beauty. Certainly not from knowldge! It’s a fruitless and frustrating quest to be a teacher in such a world. This man Hugo is a modern-day J. Alfred Prufrock. Now, send him over to the shelves with a feather duster to rid the stacks of spiders and silver fish. The girls will never appreciate his value, especially if they don;t read.
