Chapter 1 (Cont.)
Since I already have likely missed that antique clock, I suppose having a breakfast would not hurt. My stomach is rumbling. And it does not matter that if it's still there somehow and I miss it by 1 minute due to wasting time on breakfast. Think of it this way: fate dictated: "become a roadkill". And the jolly little boy was bleeding out on the asphalt. Massive account of blunt force trauma. Sponge vestibules within the previous uniformity of flesh. Bodily fluids married with marrows. Lymph became discardible phlegm. There is no way this boy was going to the hospital, you would not need to check the pulse, the mere sight of the accident is enough to assure you. Maybe you should take him straight to the graveyard, forego the vanities of funerals and such. During more troubled times, say wartime, you would just put on some rubble to venerate it as a makeshift tomb; of course considering that he was a dearest ally to you. Billions of humans on the planet, cannot be wasting time on one. From all the possible and exhausted perspectives, it's a gone case. But God has not left us yet, God's a notion of grace and all things bright and beautiful. From romantic view: a miracle happened; from pragmatic view: the heart was still beating despite the cataclysmic degree of bodily trauma. And it happened on a secluded street, where the streets spend quadruple more time being idle than supporting the weight of and reciprocating traction to tyres. And you were standing there, in manifold dilemma: that's a corpse I shouldn’t be involved in it. Someone was dead from an accident. Someone was killed brutally. Someone had setup elaborately grotesque suicide. It fell from the fucking sky. It's not real I am having hallucinations. It's a bait by Mephala. It's not real. I don't give a fuck about a corpse. I wish I was like him right now. I wish I was the perpetrator. I wish everyone in the world suffered the same fate... Sometime later, God touches you. You make hesitant steps toward the scene and slowly you take the right arm, carefully, and gently press your thumb against the veins. Your heartbeat spikes, whether from horror or profoundly emotional response, is still in the unclear. Because it is not just you whose heart is still beating. You wasted time pondering the situation, exhausting the perspectives and causalities, you considered different scenarios and how people in those are likely to react. It seemed null from the beginning, all the perspectives and the "corpse". You waited and waited and wasted more time. Soon you rushed the boy to the nearby hospital, not very close by at all since it was a secluded place: bumfuck nowhere. The doctors expressed shock and wonder at someone still being alive in such a devastated condition. You have left the place and you do not want to hear more. But maybe three months later, out of whim, you would visit the place and find out that the boy lives. The resultant permanent disability and scars may not be as noticeable to you as he smiles at you gently, not knowing who you might be in the first place; and you have to put on harder effort to mask the emotionality, that despite the rampant ugliness of the world and its primate inhabitants, there are still some glimpses of beauty from time to time. Perfect timing is not always the most optimal, is it? The boy could have been saved even if you had quickly taken action instead of aimless pondering. But despite that, he still lives. Now, in the case of God not just touching, but fingering your ass thoroughly, you might have left the place and waited a whole day then come back to rescue him. Maybe the boy would still live, despite the probability taking an outlandish leap towards the supernatural. God is miraculous, even though He is selective with what He considers worthy of saving. The coveted antique might have been placed out of my range of tangibility, but what if God, in his erratic fervour, said, "You are a vile cunt but you are also beloved. You should get the antique clock." I'm deeply optimistic that God's lightning bolt of fervour has, just a minute ago, pierced mine heart and now it's only fair that I take my sweet time having the breakfast.
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Faithwaves Mk, 2 II / Limerence