My obsession is brown. It is cold, crisp and brittle. It emerges from the frigid dark, enveloped in purple and gold, and lies heavy in my hand, filled with possibilities. It is versatile, my obsession. Almost limitless in its ambition, from unremarkable beginnings it has stretched and grown into its power until it spans the globe. It is not only my obsession but that of countless millions of others. A popular obsession. An addiction.
It sweats, my obsession. Slicked with greasy exudation it threatens to slip through my fingers and be lost. My attempts to hold it tighter only risk more rapid and certain loss. I'm reminded of the old saying: if you love something, let it go. If it comes back to you, it's yours. If it doesn't, then it never was. So I let go, and my obsession stays, even though I am not holding it. They knew what they were talking about, those old soothsayers.
My obsession is white, too. A rainbow obsession. As many colours as there are races of human beings, and like those races each wears its tribal costume. Gaudy in their splendour. Eye catching. Irresistible. From childish designs - broad strokes of garish colour - to mature and sophisticated black and gold, or silver, the costumes are as varied as an individual's taste and yet at the same time familiar. Instantly recognisable. Comforting.
It softens, my obsession. Lying there where I have released it. Its previous brittleness forgotten, its coldness discarded. As if it has forgiven me my possessiveness. As if it has decided to love me in return; to yield to my most secret desire. I might even be its obsession as it is mine. I catch the merest hint of its delicate perfume as it lies there, softening further in the early evening sun. I decide to undress it.
My obsession is uncovered. Its costume lies discarded on the floor. Partly unfolded, partly ripped off in my haste to enjoy the sight of it naked. Now defenceless, I can melt its heart. The heavenly smell of its body fills my senses as I move closer. My tongue caresses its smooth skin, tasting the first sweetness, feeling the silky surface slip beneath me as my mouth closes on its flesh. Nibbling. Biting.
It melts, my obsession. Its fluid slips into my mouth, its flavour filling my mind with longing. It slides down my throat, coating my taste buds and tonsils with warm, languid waves of liquid satisfaction. With superhuman self-control I resist the urge to bite down on the last dwindling lump as it dissolves into a whispered sweet nothing.
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2 comments:
I know you're a brilliant writer anyway, but even through these six days, I've seen how poignant your descriptions are and even your writing improving!
Thanks! :0) I'm finding the discipline of doing it for 30 minutes every day is a really good driver. And trying to think of an original slant on the theme is also helping me be more creative. I hope!
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