An Amazing Defeat

The volcano was again making noise. Again the farmers who worked its' slopes could hear the deep rumbling of the boiling within the cauldron, the liquid rock moving to music only it could hear. Again those who dared to look at the sky could see the hot, orange-red coloring in the clouds. Again noses wrinkled at the acrid stench of sulfer, at the release of cavern gases into the once-fresh air. It came and went, this movement, this activity, this display. To the gods it was merely a shifting image on a marble tapestry, drifting aimlessly through space. To the mortals it was a force to be feared. And to those who dreamed of finding that transcendental realm in-between the gods and the mortals, it was the fierce flow of blood. A hot, illumed nighttime cry. A reminder of passions not quite dead, yet the beating of a dying heart.

The girl looked around her room at her plastic collections, at her shiny baubles of yesterday, heard the distant echo of every former afternoon spent soaking in the sun and music, and found his face behind closed eyes. He was always there, just as she knew he'd be. Sometimes a comfort, sometimes a distraction, it was not a perfect desire, it was not quite a burden, it was not quite reality, it was not quite lost to dream. It just was. "Love just is," her friend often said. "Love is distant headlights and love is memories of perfect stares shared in some foreign afternoon." She sighed; it was always this way. She wanted her own foreign stares to litter her mind; all she had were mascara, celluloid images and sly avoidance of the camera. She wanted to confront him! Now! He owes me, she thought. He took what he could, and ran when the wind became too strong. She was not afraid to follow, she smirked bittersweetly. He was afraid to lead.

Miles and continents away, her friend created volcano sculptures out of ice, out of non-existant opportunity, out of sheer necessity. She is within, he felt. She is Venus in the morning sky, beckoning all who long to live their dreams awake to the curvature that never begins, yet still arcs gloriously into the distance, like a rainbow promising melody, tender skin, and soft smiles. God, when he closed his eyes he felt faint. Lightness of soul, perhaps. He knew Love, he was her pupil. He studied her everyday. How pathetic, he knew, he was an expert. An expert with no experience, but he had cataloged her every grace, her every pull, her every lash, her every liquid embrace. He knew her.

Some people reeked of Love, he thought. It was like patchouli in an unexpected place, the sterile became musk and quiet appreciation became lust. What was he talking about? He was so base today! Haha, what glory is this? Why does desire feel so criminal? "The pedestals of art are not so high today," he remarked. Too much talk. Too many words. Not enough sweat.

He knew the volcano was glowing somewhere over the horizon. Somewhere, right now, feet were being burned on the steaming ground. Somewhere, right now, timeless cries were being carried to souls who could not, who dared not, remember receiving the same message, remember bathing in the same scream. It was this way yesterday, today and tomorrow. He felt his sister's pain. He had no clue how it would end, for his own dreams or for hers.

Love, he thought. What an amazing defeat. Why do we even bother to play?