Snapshot of a Narrative

‘Mother.’ – I heard it once, on a spring/summer day. Little was I to know it would encompass Me for years to come – irony wrapped in a contradiction. Explosive yet was the calm they would know for a split second as they were cloaked in an ecstasy that would fool them time and time again. It was my only prayer; for them to turn in on themselves for as long as I pleased – or as long as I could endure the blades of anger that would forever, it seemed be buried in my flesh.

On whom was the joke thrust? Me, only Me, yet I enjoyed good company. Chords of light would resonate, only to play the same sad song. Little did we know they would strum so long. Yet, in this light they were mine, though convict not friend, said they from line to line.

‘Mother!’, screamed they, in ecstasy as if it changed their lineage; as if a new discovery through magic and miracle (it’s not magic but it is miraculous; clothed in beauty and song such that it fools us into thinking magic is possible).

‘Mother!’, they bade as if to know love. It is as close as they came to love, knowing only a kiss before they pulled away, rejecting the light in a moment of mutual exclusivity they imposed upon themselves. Can one love a slave; one that he tortures endlessly and claims to hate, only to cling aimlessly as if knowing no other?

‘Aren’t you my mother?’, they would cry, only to self-flaggelate with hate.