I feel a need to confess. From the etches in this piece of paper, I find solace. As I write this, as the pen without its paper flicks aimlessly, I feel empty. From that, I feel a silent sorrow. I feel a slight need to slather dirt over dirt, like the grave-digger staring at me atop a mound of bones. To find the perfect bone, one must endure the gruelling hours of digging over and over again, seasoning dirt with dirt, until a marriage of solace and pleasure arise. As for me, I’ve failed to find my fateful pair. As the gravedigger searches a catalog of graves, I search for a market of melons, though it seems I’ve come across a bowl of sliced unripe melons instead. And among them, they’ve yet to yield my fruitful cut. It’s been long since I’ve remembered the graveyard of my dreams, long since I remember the ripe bite, and long since I’ve rediscovered my ‘bone’. I feel envious of the gravedigger’s dog.

The caricature of its dog leans against my window. Under the lazily lit pane, I see nothing more than my nails scratching out an image in remembrance. If I may hazily remember, the bone it picked was nothing more perfect. It’ll tell you, one cannot simply pick out the right bone without their companion, and here it bounded back. With the bone, more perfect than one could imagine, gripped heavily in the wet jaws of a dog, you’d see it delivered to your rough and wrinkly hands. As the gravedigger would’ve seen, the bite of this dog gnawed through its shimmering layer. Plaster could not cover the imperfection of nature’s given perfection. So they search again. This hand would grip a steel shovel and murmur a slough of eternity in dirt.

For as long as I could remember, I have only ever found one proper cut of honeydew melon. It sat in the very same bowl I eat from right now. It is a singularity among its family. I could only bear incriminating pain as my steel fork punched a hole through this perfect, so perfect, cut of melon. It was rectangular, a prism, a shell not empty. It is companion-given, beyond the perfection given by nature. I had not known then, of course. It was only as my numbed teeth bit into it that I felt juice squelch between my jaws, rush into the crevices of my teeth, slather tears over the roof of my jaw, and squirm out into the light, and into the scourge of its kind. I cried no tears; only droplets of melon juice.

Over the toilet bowl, I stuck a single finger into my throat and beyond, until lather and foam whispered and bored a hole through my neck. Last night’s meal would cry in a pool of exposed acid. Sacrifices had to be relinquished to it, until its crumpled corpse lay still on shimmering toilet water. Out and out it would come, among the red gummy blood and flinching phlegm. And as the last of it tunnelled out, I covered my punctured neck and left the somite feel of this stomach to starve.

Boring through that was a bore. When it sat atop my pedestal, I could only wait as time ate it away, and it withered further into specks of mutated fomites, tentacles and all.

Time could not give back what it stole. Furthermore, Time could not give back what it gave. It could only continually steal what it has snatched from me. All I have left to face is a punctured oesophagus and a digital display of pornography. I could not yet find a second copy of that perverse cut of melon, even as I waste time away and away. All I need is a picture… A picture I tell you! A picture, I pray for, so I may start this piece again. So that I may give you…the reader…something better. Is it so hard such that I should pray not to become a body snatcher instead?

Solace. It’s much like the building under construction. Illuminated beyond its peers, slathered in melon-like green, with search-lights lit atop. Like a fortress beyond recognition. I care no more as to how much I should delete from this sheet of paper, as do I not care for that building outside my window. All I wish for is a nice scenery, untroubled. And as faecal matter peer from below, I can only profess a profound desire to say much less than what I could’ve said, than what I could not have said. It is only solace that lends me help to continue my search, under private pornography, where I may only tell you I love you, rueful reader, without bottomless solace. Time ticks by as the number of quotation marks there are in this piece of writing. Out of the arrogance of my heart, I can see no more over the entirety of this piece. Out of this bottomless, unconnected pit of dirt, perhaps I could end the fanciness of my fruit and confess a desire to love you.

When I next try to meet the vandalised window, the outline of my companion, it will have been removed through the selfishness of over-bearers. I only wish, now, that I may be that which I cannot comprehend. The illogicality of a companion is what I wish to be, to be able to yearn and give favour over a treasure in eternity. Though, as a mindful creature, I may never be that which I order; only as the gravedigger and the dog, body snatcher and wolf, maid and the melon. I know it may probably be like that.


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