On the horizon to my right, the building adorned with three red lights comes into view. Without realising, I think of her. I always think of her. I pretend that I don’t, yet what use is there in lying. The feelings she puts into my heart keep my feet firmly off the ground. Without them, I’d obey the laws of gravity the same as everyone else. The red lights blink at me. Perhaps in their way, they’re speaking to me, but me being me, I don’t hear a thing. I hear thunder, though. The thunder stirs in the clouds, and when it rains, I hold out my hand and bring several, watery beads to my lips. These lips once kissed her lips. One day, maybe, they’ll kiss them again. It’s hard to say. The night draws in, and as it does, the red lights grow brighter, as do the smaller yellow ones that shimmer from far away in the distance. Whether or not they’re real or exist solely in memory is anyone’s guess. It doesn’t matter either way, as long as I feel it, that’s the main thing. But what of these feelings? It could be they’re chemical, or perhaps mythical. I’m an artist after all, and myths are what I deal in. Without them, I’d be the same as everyone else. And what of love? Is it a myth as well? Is the reason I’m so drawn to it because I know it’s something I’ll never be able to grasp, and like Sisyphus, I’m to be forever damned to struggle on with no end in sight? She’s real, though. She’s flesh and bone. And yet the version of her that sings to me the same as those three red lights is one I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to touch. I’m between times. A traveller with no place to call home. What does she even look like now? And how does she carry herself? Does her scent still have the ability to tickle my nose? Could it linger on my flesh for days on end the same as it did before? Could it drive me to madness? Just the thought of it is maddening enough. And those three red lights, how they blink their hidden truth at me, and as I move as if at random, it seems that the love a writer seeks is like a dream upon waking; perpetually out of reach and yet close enough to touch.
S.K. Nicholas is the creator of Myredabyss.com, as well as author of three collections of prose: A Journal for Damned Lovers Volumes 1, 2, & 3 (available on Amazon.) Additionally, Nicholas is a member of the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective.