celia Spenard Ko | The Room 22

III

September 12, 2011 § Leave a comment

The first two DVDs off the stack piled next to my tele make good visors. The right one hides the window from view and the left, the microwave oven clock. My toes comb the shag carpet – its sensation calms my nerves. I sink between the couch pillows wishing they were your thighs. My bearings are worthless and I only wish to loose them – all. For the next one hundred and seventy seven minutes I am yours, body, mind and soul. What beautiful deception you bestow upon me. My eyes devour your performance, wanting to believe it be the holy truth. My holy truth. Your holy persona. There is such a thing as wholeness and it prances before me, yet I cannot attain it. Indeed you remain contained to the confines of the tele, a painful reality that manifests itself in the form of credits rolling in an abyss. Names of those who contributed in making me dream while awake. That name beside yours, I know it and associate it with that of a madman’s, one that knows not of Love, but only its polar opposite. We’ve all been duped, especially I, during those one hundred and seventy seven minutes – believed you were…

Demons play Angels with more ease than the latter can simply be and dear sir if I shed tears today it is not only for your moving performance, but for the morals and convictions you so ardently possessed, then discarded once the final scene had faded to black and with it my Faith in men.