Short Stories

Nightmare of a Softboy Chapter 4

When I describe how my foot began to tap I worry that I am communicating some form of elation or relaxation of the cerebral pressure which had led me, or still may, to my golden hits shower. That release would have been perfect; it was the explicit bidding of an insect which harbored warm against my ribcage.  But life seldom works so cleanly. Perhaps a slight tangent will work well to elucidate any confusion.


Imagine an egg, sitting firmly in a pot which lies at a slow heat.  As its fibers are subjected to denature it begins to lose form, slouching within its oval.  There is no yolk or white, only a lazy cream that cannot resemble what was once made to be. When you go and inspect the egg, which you have laid on low heat for hours, it is essentially unrecognizable. And once you decide to leave it for weeks upon weeks, a closer breadth of valuable movement, it expels in fetid convulsions before settling into the groove of decay.  The novel eye may, at first, mourn what has supposedly rotted away from its telos. They screech at the silent earth to return the benefit of mild ripeness. But this is naive. Destruction is, and can only be, human. As such, its acceptance carries with it an implicit separation of man from the earth through which he is formed. The egg has not been ruined. It was not then, and is now, but, most importantly, it is both.  There is not a linear resolution, but rather a holistic understanding that wholeness cannot be understood momentarily.


So this is how I found solace removed from my favorite alternative radio station.  There was not an unexpected pleasure, but rather a final understanding that I could never be removed from my prior existence, and that this pain was not indicative of sin.  There is no hope in reflection.


-Cliff Jenkins