‘Shooting Star: Caffeine Injection’ extract

Something different today. A little extract from a shelved project last year. 

The sun set around us, smothering burnt sienna with inky murk. Stars; we looked for them, but the depths and layers of smog and smutty cloud covered their gleam. I thought I caught a glimpse, but was immediately corrected by your cutting tone. Hair stood up on end. I had met a challenge, incarnate, realised by the blunt way you told me: ‘no, that’s not what you see before you. Look closer. Notice’. 

I had spent so long trying not to notice, to pay attention to no specific detail to prevent attachments. And I think you saw that in me, noticing that I didn’t notice. Giving permission to form attachments to the details. Inspiring me, making me want to pay attention to all the tiny elements that collide in an instant to create a vista. The leaves, tangling, caught by woody sticks, forming trees. Trees spanning horizons. And now the stars, struggling to make themselves present, light travelling from so very far away, surviving the journey long after the source has been extinguished, only for the alien ethereal to be blocked by lofty water droplets. 

We remained static, seated, the air around us cooling. The ambience of electric bulbs, igniting in the dusk, backlit our silhouettes and cast long shadows, black as pitch, onto steely concrete. Passers by, a dizzying blur. I wanted to absorb all you had to say, each movement you made. Learning from you as an apprentice to a scholar of the infinite. You gestured towards items relevant to your trains of thought, each one gathering momentum, running ahead, each sentence struggling to catch up. No destination, endless loops and teasing the tresses into coherence. Each strand connected. Nothing left to chance, or so it seemed at least. Effortless, and yet so very concise. 

I wanted you to stay that evening. That point, right then, if I could place a pin in the timeline, would have been when I knew you were of another world. You didn’t belong there, with me. And if that pin could act as a beacon, and if I could fold the fabric of time, that point, right there, would be where I would remain. To stick a pin in and watch the linear writhe. Make it scream for all the hurt of the past. To remain, selfishly, triumphant, relishing in the needless excess of enjoyment. Endlessly. 


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