Kiss Superhero

Published on: February 4th, 2020 | Genre: surrealist fiction
by Ethan Lesley CC | © All rights reserved.

Some get high at one sense or one whiff or one allusion to death, while others still claim it as the most perverted. Although still gazed upon as the formal state of most famous tabloids and values of art, I do tire of death as a reality but never as a concept in which to mold my mornings into. No, I would not say I am still braving the same type of depression I once had lived in; nor am I keeping it normal still, that kind of perverted mindset that ruined both mind and body. And no, I did not get professional help, as many have done so and many still need to. And no, this luck doesn’t come easy to all, but I still would not check myself complete.

What comes easy to me now is a different sort of dread, though. I fear this one rising and raving through me, like methamphetamine in my veins but that which contain a heavy alcohol and leaves no imperfect scarring. When awake, all I dream about is money. And no, I never dream about working in any efforts to earn that money. I dream that that money be fearlessly and anonymously donated to me by some bored and dying person. And no, I am not as lazy, as some might presume I am. And no, I am not as hardworking, as some might assume I am.

I still manage to get out of bed and bend my sorrows and hunger and contain my addiction to nicotine; but bend and contain it for a week more, I do not think I can do. I sweep myself and try to swoon over things that doesn’t have a killing head and kissable buttocks, but my mouth waters at the thought of my truest desires. True delirious desires will be the death of me; or, at least, what I’d pray I’d die upon as my formal state of tabloid, and value, and– perhaps, if I am willing– art.

I have, for some time now, decided to condone people who have sought after love and success without putting in the work. I have convinced myself successfully that this laziness is a fault shared by many people who try to claw their way out of moderate pain, as if love and comfort and prestige are things that were owed to many as if rights. Still, this agony is a reflection of what I do fear in the constant. I try to pledge myself out of it almost every day, but how could I differentiate when my waking hour is ten in the evening and I’ve devolved into insomnia amidst the sun?

It fell upon me one night, then, such a majestic form. The avatar was a solid man with skin as flawless as flawlessness can be, hair full, and wings as cleverly shaped as a gargoyle. Of course, I may have associated the frivolousness and tempt of the wings of birds with all variations of holiness that never knew first-hand melancholy, as so have the world. This avatar, as I refuse to call it ‘angel’, for modest reasons, have feet softer that wool and cotton. One could tell it had never landed before. Perhaps it slept in the air for so long. Perhaps, since birth.

Of course, when I said night, I could have easily meant that this imagination was something I conjured at four in the morning, or perhaps eight, or ten. I do not know for it all blurs and the one drape of my room is solid. I could tell that this shirtless avatar did not care for night time. I could tell that it looks up to a never ending sunlight.

It hovered, I think, for above fifteen, maybe twenty five feet. Why it chose not the peak of its wings’ capacity, I do not know. Perhaps it had grown lazy over all these years of being atop the other sickly, bent creatures all huddled together below it as if concentrating in a mosh of poorness and invalidity. It, again, had been a typical set-up that isn’t a far cry to my other conjurations. These invalids have clearly grown many types of skin diseases and have stomachs either protruding outwards in dramatic manners, or have only ribs showing, intestines evolving smaller to conserve energy. Their lips were dry and chalky, and at times trying to purse themselves onto rusty barrels that contained half a feet of rain water dirtied with algae and black-and-brown water worms.

When I mentioned it was a typical sight, I meant to say that they were all caged on top of a tower at least 200 to 300 square meters in space. And this tower, again as typical, is one of the few that survived a great flooding. As generous as the sun above were was as malicious the storms unseen had been; making the top the only thing whose head rises from a twenty-storey ocean that now is home to a delicious ecosystem. How waterlilies survive in groups in this clear yet dirty water goes beyond me. Perhaps flora have forced evolution upon itself; striking me as a feature not odd nor careless nor consentless but courageous, deserving, and filled of natural hard-work.

In the horizon are many other landings that did not house any devolved creatures but, for reasons bit with curiousity, the avatar of mine could not afford to look away from the lowlies. Neither could it be patient enough to find new entertainment. I could feel its privileged, almost-godly brain waiting for some epiphany while its disgust to the ground blares continuous in the pit of its stomach, and in turn, mine while deep in tired concentration. This is a typical thing to experience when one often pushes its dream alter to fly; something I swear only lucid dreamers have known their entire hapless halves of lives.

There is an ask, too, if ever there had been any forerunner tabloids, or values, or art that had inspired no deciphering nor ridicule. Although trapped in a place where patience isn’t thin, not thin, too, is fascination. Not thin, too, is observation, is absorption to observation.

Time absorbs and observes as well, as everything made themselves die and live and starve and scavenge in haste. Within a third of a minute, every other with capable limbs have climbed towers made of now-orange steel that populated the surviving wasteland of pure concrete. After becoming tired of opening doors that lead only to a floor of water, they have decidedly become smart and fashioned pikes from wet woods, desiring to kill my half-consciously concocted form. There is no desire for feeding. There is no desire other than for their rage to be heard.

I do not know why my instincts were blurry, nor why I decided to evade the throw of hands and popular weapons then engage again. This desire to take down a fake immortal of sorts is equaled by the desire to not mock the grown body acne of the median. There is only that hunger for closeness to whatever hideousness combats a peachy visage of some wild flower.

I could tell you this show of wrath and admiration went on length that is of possible great interest, but it never strayed into anything as the inner clock sped up. It intersected to nowhere a great a tale of battle. All mouths gaped but no sound ever boomed in the progressing cold forever afternoon. I wondered later if, when it came to survival of fittest features, vocal chords got the unfortunate axe.

Within this lengthy silence where white noise could be considered music, one of the few hidden crates burst after unwitnessed years of clawing. Out of this normal thing poured accessories that resembled wings, rushing out as if pushed from a reverse black hole. Every pair graciously puked from this secret realm– a realm which I later realized my avatar locked up in plain sight– attached to the wingless, as if kissing their backs where appropriate holes earlier rested; a physical feature ignored since the beginning, taken as some passive unattractiveness. Ten by ten, they ascended, each trying to grab a limb of mine. I grew tired of being their unequal. Our chase ensued– I, as prey– smiling scared over waterlilies and unpopulated aims of architecture, no longer able to depower nor tower anyone, paying previous selfishness with pounds of flesh.

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