it keeps raining. then it stops. the blinding sun comes out before black overcast takes over again. it starts raining.
this goes on throughout the day.
it rains for 45 seconds, 45 minutes, 4.5 minutes. heat and cold alternating. brutal and burning, then melancholy, density; the cold and damp clogging up with the sky with sadness, before brightness. then the children come out to play.
there appears to be invisible insects, most likely four ants, crawling and biting us at various points on our bodies. they were not present 4 hours ago, the bodies we mean. something about the cluster of ephemeral darkness in the heavens, positioning of the stars or the emergence of a crescent moon along our line of experience, that creates the flesh and bones necessary to constitute biological forms.
other bodies, made outside us, have now manifested, largely as counterparts to the architecture that reveals itself as a single storey building, then a cafe within the building, with a plastic playground attached, where the children come out to play when it isn’t raining. then cakes and liquid appear behind glass, on shelves, in cold storage; there’s coffee beans, tea bags, reward cards, people in red uniforms, utterly confused by the changing of our faces.
we vaguely come to realize this reality is part of a program called erth.
we experience the smell of dying pine trees. we observe, the peculiar way smoke escapes our lungs, the burning of strange roots between our fingers, wrapped in the white skin of dead trees.
the woman in the red uniform watches us fidget with our drink. we are unsure if the sugar in the syrup has caused the sensation of ants crawling under our skin, biting nerve points, causing itch – hallucinating distress and distracting us from counting the stretches of time. 4.5 minutes of rain. 45 days of sun. we move in and out of the cafe, some of us going forth first, others lingering by power points, yet many of us choosing to remain before the blinding screens, studying the ascension and descent of suns and crescent moons.
liquid from the ocean stolen by heat. it rains then it does not rain. children come out to play, confused by the changing of our forms as we come to understand limbs and spherical objects splashing in water from the sea, delivered by sky. it gets cold but no longer melancholic. children run in puddles. it gets dark in 45 minutes. we wait for 45 months. we no longer experience the bright.
it no longer rains.
and there isn’t any more liquid in our chalices, even though we cannot recall performing the act of consumption.
the experience of insects is gone. a species vanished. the woman in the red uniform does not age. she is confused by the changing of our landscape. we try communicating with her but she only speaks about a thing named dollars. the liquids in our cups are not the liquids we paid for. we will no longer request for the syrup.
at some stage, we depart.
but we do recall spending unrecorded moments, watching the children go home to sleep.
#prose #sglit #irvingpaulpereira #xol