Jareb & Angelica: Unbreakable Breakage

You stop-up the sink, run warm water and wash your face. After you brush your teeth, you look in the mirror and say, “My name is Jareb and I must make it through this.” You think of Angelica, this fairer incredibility, where pain has become beautiful. You sneeze. A slight fever is coming. Plus, you feel lethargic.

You grip the couch or shred its pillow in reaching despair. You have never died like this.

The walls are enveloping the sea-ceiling is hanging the rooftop is somber. You have collapsed this way: the birds are unvocal life has a screeching sound.

You start to wheeze those existential lungs where something wars inside: conflicting thoughts, or raging angst, or beauty disbelieving its calling.

It was terminal agony so close to threat where guts curdle and lies give warmth; such terrible questions: Was life in pain? Was the sun on sabbatical? Would the sky ever croon again?

The days were benighted the soul was whittled—by love, through love, and for love.

You take courage but a silent prose while aching in sulfuric misery; for Angelica wasn’t celestial but Angelica was heaven, such semantics such contradiction insomuch as a whisper. 

You cruise inner memories—the sweetest memoirs—where Angelica is lily or daffodil or something born by riddle. Those signs, they wreak absence, where a mind should be awake: those rhythms so gentle those oversights so harmful while if but to redeem Christmas!

You stir up integrity in an attempt to know life—you call Angelica.

The phone is softest despair, that voice languishes, it is found most miserable, it whispers:

“Such was darkness those precious rivers so torn by action versus immobility; to have sheer power in a world fraught by desire as an animal distinguished be rationality. It is never to hurt but more to live where anguish appears and laughs and causes confusion; but you die with motion, Jareb, you air by doting, and you never give reality its voice; such pure perils so against nature while we ignore genetics.”

You light a cigar while drifting into introspection where something is lenient; smoke fills your lungs, there’s a stench in the waves, but those words, such tasty vinegar, they appear so sweet; if but to love like heroes if but to fly like heroines if but one repairing dance; but pain is resentful, it haunts and mimics itself while arriving at the surface without a proper announcement; it boils in frustration like miserable feelings where one might adore but humanness agonizing over betrayal: the thought of sharing, even by convention, it destroys innocence.

You need something stronger—even Cognac—or something to aid in writing this disaster freely.

You guzzle until its blurry, while walking or pacing in order to articulate the grief. If only Angelica, this newly built skyglass, if but a cry for eternity, if but those minds as one.

The phone rings, it’s Angelica, you know this space too well.

“I’ve called to suggest more love.” But Angelica sounds unclear. “I have loved you, Jareb. I have died with you so often. What is it that gives us life and winds and sunshine and gloom? I need you to need me. I need you to curl up in my lungs. I need for us to get through this.”

You feel unsteady, but rinsed, and life seems to make its journey.

“I need you, Angelica. But agony is building and destiny is laughing while love is giggling. We have come to this space quite often. But I must adore you. I must; for life is gray, the hedges are high, and I am cringing to see into something I can’t contain. Our miracle minds. Our miracle hearts. If but to consume this universe!”

“Yes, Jareb. I am filled with remorse. I am bitter with sweetness. But we have taken turns. We have churned romance.”

You listen closer, but there is but a dial tone. 

In an instance, you feel silence: its pressure-fire, it’s incompatibility, even its darkness. You feel wrapped in seaweed, you sense a seahorse, while an octopus is crushing your chest-cave. The tears bubble intensely the earth is hollow while something hallowed has become of something so irregular. You hear breath, it closes atmosphere, and you remember instability; this cold-hearted avenger this blue-black melancholia where pain is sour but adorable. You snatch the phone, but numbers escape you—indeed, you remember the combination. Angelica answers and you suffuse her being: “I remember cucumbers and salads even deaths and privilege. I fight to loathe you. I die to create you. But fighting is unstable and deaths are nebulous. I find love in you—too enchanted to sing or too silent to feel—but such a rush at life, so creative in pictures, while those aye-aye lenses pour into something we cannot see; such pain with glory such passion with misery while a man has never felt quite alive. Angelica, come to me!”

Angelica is weeping. The mind is horrors or adventures or blue aliens. And then she says:

“I know your name. I hear your voice. I submit to our turmoil; for it is life or roses or petals sprinkled into spirits. I know your prints, those paws, this mind filled with pyramids. We close chapters we barely eat we die while floating upon driftwood. This feeling, Jareb, this uncontrollable elation—while confined to aging and hurting and screaming. I’ll come to you by sweeter days. I’ll come, Jareb.”

You sit by consciousness. Angelica’s prose pours into pavement. You resurrect a little, this partial existence, this railway this brain, this blood and brine. Pain is intricate. It pushes and pulls while molding and mining. To have lived with chaos is to appreciate nuance during seasons where such passion is devastation. You light something gentle, a scented candle, while musing upon a revving fever. Your emotions are haggard. Your feelings are but a whetstone. You feel sharpened or semi-adjusted while waiting for something that can’t be broken.