Sometimes when I want to describe Minka to people, I want to try and make them visualize this dream of mine. Of course they wouldn't be able to understand it, or see it as I saw it while sleeping. They wouldn't be able to understand why this dream so perfectly represents her. Why a collection of vivid and cold imagery, which makes no sense, even though there was some really profound truth in it, so aptly described her. Pity I'm no good with words. I believe the name Yukiko means Snow Child in Japanese. Perhaps that says it better.
In this moment Minka is turning a bit in her shallow sleep. She came awake long enough to see we were still in the lobby, registered this fact, before letting herself drift back to sleep. Right now I want nothing more than to be cuddling up to this ice woman in a warm bed. Especially one of these warm beds which are outfitted in good soft sheets and comforters of down. Kicking off a hundred dollars from our night's tab was a good gesture for our budget, but it didn't help with my want. My need for sleep, comfort, and the warm–almost soft snoring sounds–of the woman at my side. Another thirty minutes pass before a bellhop comes to show us to our room. A room that will offer another moment in my life.
Puzzles and Paradigms
I've been lost to dreaming in my waking state. I've passed through mirrors and slipped my hand through the wall to feel the reality hidden on the other side. I have found secrets. I found her.
It can be said that what I found was a configuration meant for a creature so much greater than myself. Like the toy maker's puzzle box, created with loving care and burning ambition, only to become the ever shifting paradigm. A riddle within a riddle, where the answer is known only to the very person who created it and could care less about solutions where there is no mystery or prize.
I looked past the configuration into the heart of the room itself. In ignorance and utter apathy I left the mystery to someone else, someone who might be crippled by the desire to see what lay at its heart. For me, there was only one thing that seemed to matter: To move beyond the barrier so I could look into her eyes.
False nature said there came absolution with the gift of just one glance. Common sense told me that as reality shifted in dreams, so too did the honesty given truth in this place.
I could rely on neither, I just wanted to touch her. I wanted to be close enough to breath her in. Like the sweat and smell pushed from her pores was a greater intoxicant than the oxygen my lungs fought for. I wanted to put my mouth on hers and leave it moist. To touch her skin, to feel her hair, to put physical textures to all the things I saw as I looked at her.
Her smile suggested an invitation. A greater sense reasoned that a hungry smile offered to prey would look much the same. Where was the line between a desire to welcome and the need to disassemble those before her? How well did she balance this line. Was she the demigoddess left to rot alone in the temple built for her? Or was this nothing more than a shrine to another unseen and dead force? She the useless thing left to guard the entrance.
Perhaps it did not matter. Or perhaps I had finally found a riddle that would cause me a desire to see it through to the end. Where my hands would fall over her form and twist it into some sort of position that offered me an answer. Would she lie on her back and confess to me the nature of living death? Or would she lay speechless and spread her legs to let spill the seeds spit from the mouths of gods? Would she tell me what fruit would grow from such a seed?
I could spend a lifetime there, silently answering my own questions, never once addressing them to her. I wanted to speak, but she wore such a weary look of futility across her features. Like every question would simply be answered with another question. Like every moment that passed was just another reminder of how she had found her way to that spot.
And I thought...
For all the beauty I saw in her sitting there, was there a force or reason in nature that would cause me to want to take her place? To be held fast to this dusty corner which smelled like used time and dead clocks. Would I want to know the sweetness in her smell was from the drying of her blood beneath the skin, or the vanilla air congealing on her body? Would I really want the answers if she had the mouth to voice them?
Curiosity suggested yes. A deep rooted knowledge of myself answered differently by pushing my feet to move. I turned away from her and wondered briefly if I looked back quick enough if I could catch the illusion broken. But I didn't do this. Whether she cracked and faded away from my eyes, I could offer her painless immortality by keeping the memory of her as it was: Something dead and beautiful. Something silently screaming for release. I left her a riddle.
About the Author
Bethalynne is a Michigan native who spent much of her early life chasing the fae around her grandfather's nearly mythical fairy tale garden. Where the fae weren't calling, the strange shadows in the closet were whispering. When it was finally suggested that she kindly bring herself down from the clouds (and out from those dark places) she turned her expansive imagination towards capturing her characters and their worlds through writing and drawing. The latter has led to her having a notable career as a professional artist for the past twenty years. She happily shares the stories behind the art through her writing site Ver Sacrum Books. To view all of Bethalynne's written works please visit VerSacrumBooks.com. Or to view all of her creative works visit her online portfolio at Bajema.com
First Ebook Edition
Book Cover: The cover was created by Bethalynne and features public domain artwork including works from John William Waterhouse (April 6, 1849 – February 10, 1917).
When Jupiter Sighs Page 9
