| Dionisios Efkarpidis |
| From Dawn Till Dusk |
The Dawn of pubescence was seeded with expectations.
I followed the Star Spangled celebration that marched in educational facilities,
celebrated theologies, and media driven epitomes. Colors had personality, a
portrait of living hues; red hair, blue-green eyes, and flesh toned lips, all formed
together from a spectral brush and blown into the horizon, speaking to me, telling
me softly to follow.
And I did.
The grass was a rich green that both saturated the suns chorus of rays, and
reflected them towards me. Everything was alive and endless. Trees swayed in the
wind, the scent of all seasons in the air. Vines coursed like veins ahead of me.
Small furry animals with large glossy eyes and plump cheeks moved about.
Animated voices lectured perfection, knowledge, and all-you-can eat futures.
Angels and sprites tried to sell me immortality like scripted salesmen. Waterfalls
fell with somersaults, drizzling showers of dreams so refreshing intoxication was
inevitable. Everything was alive, a living, pulsing system. As the path twisted and
flourished tenderly with time, new eras of excitement blossomed like a garden.
Then came a chocolate tingle in the back of my head and stomach. My crystal
heart refracted the wondrous colors of life, a blinding brightness, forming within.
Was this love? Mover/masher of mountains and unimaginable sensations?
To Touch meant to melt as fingertips flooded like canyons, moistening my reality,
drowning my impotence.
To Taste meant to absorb, as the curve of her neck yawned its poisonous lust, my
tongue twisted into budding languages.
To See meant to capture, admiring the perfection where the lashes curved in awe
and suspense, and the gaze took in the moment only a mind can trap in its glow.
To Hear meant to hush all other sounds, as her whispers purr rhythmically,
vibrating every cell.
And to Smell meant to sweeten the lungs with her scent, till ribs expand like sails.
So much beauty, so much to admire and dance with, breath still, smile broad,
body and mind clean and crisp.
Then the Dawn of pubescence sank, colors faded, the path darkened. The light in
the grass was gone, Angels grown silent. Running to stay in the light was
exhausting. I couldn't reach the sun. I had fallen from its cradle, trapped in its
blink. The dusk brought darkness. The curvy path, rich grass, beautiful gardens,
and cascading waterfalls turned to right angles, cold tiles, metal boxes, and
sparks. Light from internal boxes were set into smaller boxes, where bodies stared
into smaller boxes made of glass, hypnotized by flickers. Thousands of sharp
voices whispered and cried from all around. Small dark objects ran across my
grated path, and steam rose from below, carrying a putrid smell of melting
plastics, burning fuels, and decaying flesh. Wires ran like spider webs, entangling
me as if to choke. The humidity was thick, claustrophobic. To my right I caught a
glimpse of a face. As I moved, soiled like a rotting fruit, I noticed the face was
trapped, frozen in ice.
What happened?
I never knew the path would turn to this. The soft sponginess of life had dried into
a rock, deserted in the desert of truth. There were no warnings, no signs. It's as
though the Dusk was underneath my Dawn driven path, and I was never told, just
teased with its decorations. I then sat for a while, clutching my knees, closing my
eyes and remembering, dreaming of the Dawn of Pubescent and the times after,
where laughter never stuttered or broke. Where the senses were superpowers.
Where lives were immortal. Where life was a world made for my eyes.
I could only listen now, listen to the sounds beyond this Dusk. The far away
echoes, crying to reach me but fading in the Doppler's expansion, like moving cars,
sirens, and horns stretched from an omniscient distance. The sounds are soothing
and hopeful. They are sounds from somewhere else, other paths untold and
unfound.
When I open my eyes I must decide where to go, what to do.
My Dawn days are dead, but the Dusk days have dawned on me a new
perspective, one that is the ring of sounds centered on me, and the path is now
that spiral, burrowing into the next day to come.
I followed the Star Spangled celebration that marched in educational facilities,
celebrated theologies, and media driven epitomes. Colors had personality, a
portrait of living hues; red hair, blue-green eyes, and flesh toned lips, all formed
together from a spectral brush and blown into the horizon, speaking to me, telling
me softly to follow.
And I did.
The grass was a rich green that both saturated the suns chorus of rays, and
reflected them towards me. Everything was alive and endless. Trees swayed in the
wind, the scent of all seasons in the air. Vines coursed like veins ahead of me.
Small furry animals with large glossy eyes and plump cheeks moved about.
Animated voices lectured perfection, knowledge, and all-you-can eat futures.
Angels and sprites tried to sell me immortality like scripted salesmen. Waterfalls
fell with somersaults, drizzling showers of dreams so refreshing intoxication was
inevitable. Everything was alive, a living, pulsing system. As the path twisted and
flourished tenderly with time, new eras of excitement blossomed like a garden.
Then came a chocolate tingle in the back of my head and stomach. My crystal
heart refracted the wondrous colors of life, a blinding brightness, forming within.
Was this love? Mover/masher of mountains and unimaginable sensations?
To Touch meant to melt as fingertips flooded like canyons, moistening my reality,
drowning my impotence.
To Taste meant to absorb, as the curve of her neck yawned its poisonous lust, my
tongue twisted into budding languages.
To See meant to capture, admiring the perfection where the lashes curved in awe
and suspense, and the gaze took in the moment only a mind can trap in its glow.
To Hear meant to hush all other sounds, as her whispers purr rhythmically,
vibrating every cell.
And to Smell meant to sweeten the lungs with her scent, till ribs expand like sails.
So much beauty, so much to admire and dance with, breath still, smile broad,
body and mind clean and crisp.
Then the Dawn of pubescence sank, colors faded, the path darkened. The light in
the grass was gone, Angels grown silent. Running to stay in the light was
exhausting. I couldn't reach the sun. I had fallen from its cradle, trapped in its
blink. The dusk brought darkness. The curvy path, rich grass, beautiful gardens,
and cascading waterfalls turned to right angles, cold tiles, metal boxes, and
sparks. Light from internal boxes were set into smaller boxes, where bodies stared
into smaller boxes made of glass, hypnotized by flickers. Thousands of sharp
voices whispered and cried from all around. Small dark objects ran across my
grated path, and steam rose from below, carrying a putrid smell of melting
plastics, burning fuels, and decaying flesh. Wires ran like spider webs, entangling
me as if to choke. The humidity was thick, claustrophobic. To my right I caught a
glimpse of a face. As I moved, soiled like a rotting fruit, I noticed the face was
trapped, frozen in ice.
What happened?
I never knew the path would turn to this. The soft sponginess of life had dried into
a rock, deserted in the desert of truth. There were no warnings, no signs. It's as
though the Dusk was underneath my Dawn driven path, and I was never told, just
teased with its decorations. I then sat for a while, clutching my knees, closing my
eyes and remembering, dreaming of the Dawn of Pubescent and the times after,
where laughter never stuttered or broke. Where the senses were superpowers.
Where lives were immortal. Where life was a world made for my eyes.
I could only listen now, listen to the sounds beyond this Dusk. The far away
echoes, crying to reach me but fading in the Doppler's expansion, like moving cars,
sirens, and horns stretched from an omniscient distance. The sounds are soothing
and hopeful. They are sounds from somewhere else, other paths untold and
unfound.
When I open my eyes I must decide where to go, what to do.
My Dawn days are dead, but the Dusk days have dawned on me a new
perspective, one that is the ring of sounds centered on me, and the path is now
that spiral, burrowing into the next day to come.
