Trip Mckenzie and the Interjection Pages.

Opening the book, somewhere in the vicinity of page that I had reached. It lays on the desk, spread inappropriately: spine bent, binding loose and indecorous. Such provocative behaviour from this supposed tome of learning. I am nauseated. I reach out to shut it close again.

I cannot bring myself to touch the pages. I stare at it, I hope with an expression of reproach. I have the feeling that the book is unbothered. Neither its permanent nature or present state are such as to care.

Such unusually salacious behaviour from this book, my companion for some weeks now, not once has it hinted at this obscene playfulness. I wonder. What is it about these pages that it has fallen upon? Why this new behaviour? What words lie there, bringing about this change?

Forcing the bile and arousal deep into my stomach I lean forward. Peer intently, objective and disattached. A scientist studying a curious new bug. I shall not engage with the words on that page, my intention is to categorize, classify. A purely scientific examination. One in which literature, art, feeling and emotion have no place. By this I shall resist its allure.

The pages laugh at me. These dark characters spore further, tentacles grasp my vision, fasten to my mind. They pull. I go down. Deep and dark.

Lightning strobes, sight periodically. Blink out, recede into the black. Everything drummed in stellar light. Flash of endless heaven. Stark and terrible. Empty and pure. Absolution.

Concrete reality reboots, restores.

Leaning upon the single metal bar, spanning the door space in the wall. Elbow juts out, chin on wrist. I look into the alley. Lost in thought, thinking of nothing. Alarm bell ringing a constant. Rain tap dance the street. The walls. Sky dark, heavy, bright and clear. Glass reflection. I feel the sea extend endlessly around the world. Vast and powerful its serenity, peace. I smell the mountain peaks, storm breeze a faintest echo of winds that dance through summit and snow. I stand upon a glacier, magnificent shining resplendently in golden sun. Ancient and endless. Epochally I surf the ice. Circumventing the earth and the ages of the world.

The pages of my notepad flutter, the rain picks up, drops into sheets and then waves. Ground lashed clean, memory of the days washed away. Light shifts spectrum, a temporary hue, a moment shorn off the world.

My head lifts, sit up straight, eyes wide, dilate.

Internalize and eternalize.

The book, inanimate now, devoid of personality and character. As it always was.