The Unfinished

016

chapter four of this anthology is definitely the messiest and most confusing. even with this one, the beginning is unclear, the end is unclear, and what's left of it is simultaneously good and bad for me.

i haven't been involved with anything for the past couple of months. it's difficult to digest it all, especially when i feel like i'm alone and people don't understand.

i've made up my mind about this one, but the jury is still out for several others.

i'm at a standstill, though. it's probably for the better.

* * *

November 2019

As much as the sun tries to forget, the traces of Icarus that remain are a painful reminder of her last and what should never have happened. And as much as the sun continues her daily ascent, a strangely monotonous yet fulfilling endeavor, she burns with a little less ferocity.

The untamed soul within the sun demands more.

More of what?

Of the same tangential presence as the first? And of the second, what of that? Of his mercurial, contentious, tempestuous, yet equally passionate and sensual forthrightness? And then, what of the many after: the wild, animalistic rush of the third, and the many before, the infinite stars of the many souls the sun has answered to? What becomes of the last? Of the unexpected sweetness and safety? Of the alligator tears and dusty nights? Of the blinding rage that follows the most cloudless skies?

What becomes of those stories when the sun attempts to burn them all? What does the sun know? What does she forget? What does she change?

The answer is nothing. She knows nothing, forgets nothing, and changes nothing.

When the sun alights the earthly soil and coursing rivers, she wants to cleanse herself from the inside out. She wants to lose those accursed memories and legends, but only in such a way that she feels no guilt and no shame. For too long, she has been placed on a pedestal. Made to feel as if she only belongs on display, and not in the hands and heart of another. Not under the skin and in the veins of another. Not in the thready pulse of another. Not in the sinew and the taut muscle of another. Not in the body of nor one with another.

No.

The sun will have none of this, because though she feels and she warms, she does so through a second pair of lenses, one that clouds an otherwise righteous intention.

But can the sun demand vengeance and blood that was never truly hers to claim? Can the sun demand warmth and light from a moon, a cold and hard exterior with an equally dry soul? Can the sun demand something she can give herself yet would want from a fool like Icarus, because companionship is less daunting in the short term? Can the sun ask something of Icarus which is not in his nature and then fault him for it?

Icarus is an empty shell. What he wants is not companionship. He wants an evil symbiosis, a draining, leeching force of ice and passionless existence. He wants the warmth of the sun like a ship in tossing seas wants the rocky shore. He wants the passion of the sun like an oyster wants to lose its pearl. He wants a light in his soul the way oil itches for fire.

And although the sun would gladly give her companionship, she resents Icarus for his unaccountability and unavailability.

She resents Icarus' flight from star to star, carried by those broken and mangled wings. There is no way he should be able to fly, and yet it seems that he continues to soar.

The sun turns away from Icarus.