The Parable Of The Collapsing Blanket Fort
A formless mass of tangled acrylic, knit polyester, cotton fleece, and eiderdown and I am trapped beneath. The bitter taste of coffee and stale smoke rummages around in my mouth. Comforters and quilts are the waves and I have plummeted into the furthest reaches of warmth. I kick my legs and flounder my body side to side to find a pocket. I explore with my four limbs, swimming and worming around, looking for a cave that I can make my home.
With a final kick, I am fully enveloped, and my heavy burden is replaced with a trammel of kaross and throw. Piano and saxophone melodies are muffled through the ocean of coverings as I swim in the warm waters of comfort. The purple-blue light that lingers in the room supplants a rush of cool touch and clean aroma beneath the heap. I do not need to survive; this simple ecosystem has one native resident. And I have evolved to become the apex predator.
My mind begins to walk. The air grows stale and sharp. My nostrils fill with pure heat and even though my breathing is not stifled, my body revolts slightly. I squirm again to an invigorating spot before the searing piquant hits me again. My mind begins to jog, my body lies in soundness. But my head has become hopelessly lost, detached from my torso and it floats above my twitching body. Every moment I am astray I feel free.
My body searches for a seam with which to gain a bracing breath. Nothing is visible. My mind denies what my body wants, to reach up and break through the swell. But the calm growing in my mind does not want to be untethered, yet. The copper, rose, and flush sapphire, the noisy down, sabulous knit wool, and the barking houndstooth. The morph and shift are as fiery, blistering paths for me to stalk. But walking and jogging have been done. My mind begins to sprint.
My toes curl. My body tenses and releases as the roasters begin to heat up and my breath becomes tense. I know I am safe, but my every impulse cries out for air and tepid life again. Am I regretting my decision to pursue solace? Is my hope to succor at the feet of man-made substance coming around to take a feast on my humanity? The muffled sounds of the outside world begin to fade, and I forget what it sounds like to hear music, taste honey, hear birds, and feel bare skin. What is it like to be normal? Why am I seeking assistance in the oppression of a desert of my own design? Why do I chase greatness only to fall back on the mundanity of life? The brisk water turns to tumult. My head begins to shake, my body starts to vibrate without my consent. But the panic is not made of impending death or risk. It’s a panic of normalcy.
I am rummaging through the blankets, trying to come up for air and escape the mindless drudgery of an adult life. My arms and legs are still tired from the initial struggle to find my place. I wrestle with the swirling effigy of jersey wool, down, and cotton. The expanding and contracting of the world speeds up with the rise and fall of my chest. My fingers touch a crisp, invisible countenance-- smooth, frozen, unbreathing, and I find my anchorage.
I burst free from my self-made quilted prison. What started as a furlough from a difficult situation becomes something worse. The existential dread of a waking life of seeming boring monotony grabs hold of me once again. The moment I become free the world slows: fresh air slaps my face and my legs and my arms break free of their blanketed bonds and I stretch. My heart rate slows, my breathing regulates, the nervousness subsides. I let out a huff that fills the lavender and cobalt colored quarters. The quiet jazz melodies become clear again, the twisting, billowing, visions on the perimeter of my periphery become my allies and I smile. I sit in my nest and contemplate why I was so afraid.
"This acid is dope," I say aloud to nobody.
