[fiction]

Photo @nwphoto

we come together to create a fiction

big enough to live inside

                        (hide inside).

we come together and hurl our hopes and our fears, and our bodies at each other.

desperate and frightened and clinging, we call it love.

the fiction is a comfort from the world, its horrors, its suffering.

the fiction is an opiate, or a stimulant, depending on what chapter you are on.

it is a collaborative creation,

                        how dare you call me a liar, when it is you that has asked me to lie

it is a work of maintenance, each one of us a janitor, an architect, an engineer.

we focus our attentions on how it appears to others, divining a design

we focus our attentions on how it appears to our ego, sculpting every sigh,   

            for the love of love is a love of embellishment

we come together to create a fiction to avoid the self

we want to be all-encompassed, to be swept up and lost to a greater force,

and we want to be blameless for allowing ourselves to be lost at all.

we come together to be swallowed whole, to be understood without words,

we write each chapter with gestures and instinct and desire and poetry,

because there are no words for the self you cannot know.

we come together to create a fiction with our bodies and we call it life.