The Moth and the Candle

Scrupulous daydreams of wistful intent linger throughout my consciousness. Peaceful memories of times which will never exist predominate in my thoughts. This dallying in the groves of time serves little purpose other than to highlight how divergent my idealised dreamworld is from my mundane and sordid reality. Congruent strands of evil and good live side by side in the fantasies in my head. Alien thoughts find febrile surface and breed ever strongly, spawning future nightmares of graphic renown. These twisted tales are authentic, cathartic in a sense, destructive in another. Imagination and the powers and pleasures that it grants have fuelled my life and placed me at the head of my own queue. Distant memories do not fade but become detached and merge with other parts of the story.
A cold night on a warm day. The journeys of those who have finished their drinking lom loud as they noisily go on their way. We walk together, chatting an laughing. Conversation topics drift and break off one another. It comes to say goodbye and we hug each other. Warmth of flesh pressed on flesh, the heat of bodies calls forth an age-old yearning. We kiss chastely and stand back to look at each other. There is a glint in her eye which allows for interpretative meaning. I take a chance, not much of one, emboldened by alcohol and lean forward so that our lips meet. There is no resistance bu desire. Our lips part and our tongues meet, each gently and firmly caressing the other. Slippery. Sinuous. We trace patterns of lust in each other’s mouths. Our hands and fingers roam our skin and squeeze and caress, heightening the pleasure. When, all at once, we break off and walk home as if nothing happened. This is a life.