La Petite Mort

I can't seem to decide which is more difficult, reliving a moment in time or recreating that moment in time. At the end of this short story I hope you will be able to decide for yourselves which I have offered here, and perhaps through the collective consciousness you can report your findings back to me. Now on with the fuckin' show!

This story takes place in a small, dank bathroom in an old beast in the heart of OSU's campus housing barracks. On this particular night friends and strangers alike had gathered at my house to celebrate the changing of time, from one year to the next. After many hours of copious drinking, smoking and an amplitude of nefarious interactions of all varieties with all sorts of lurid and loud shadows in our heads, a few of us made our way into the upstairs lavatory. A decision that would spin a new world into existence. The proceeding minutes would end up being nearly unexplainable, and beautiful beyond belief. Pink clouds coupled with elephants home to hundred feet long spider legs.

The moment, the moment started modest enough. My good friend a giant bird began to manipulate the light of his led key chain in a pulsating rhythm, much like a strobe light. After awhile he found a one hit wonder and cranked up the volume. It sure was some sort of wonderful.

In the midst of the pulsating light all of us separately and then harmoniously became the unknowing gears of some sort of primordial prized fighting mechanism. Dancing with one another, flailing our limbs to and fro like snow flakes. Making huge piles of powder all around us.

The tiny confines of the room became elongated to such an extent, that I personally fell victim to the deception of time and space, the lack there of or the abundance of it. Fuck for all I knew I could have been smack dab in the middle of some painting on some rich assholes wall, surrounded by fireflies scurrying around like a mad man of muskrat like proportions. Hand in hand, we shook the walls and made the fragile old house turn as red as a communal menstrual tent. Energy like you can't conceive, air like you couldn't breathe, skin like you dream of, mouths like monsters and mothers, and faces like Picasso imagined them. Then the finale. Fireworks and fireflies. First and last. Love and apathy. It all ensued.

A huddle of hyenas. Giggling and singing like children in Siberia, no machine to condemn the journey. A slow rise, the crescendo on the horizon, then the room exploded in tribal shouting. Tongues freely found themselves in use. Unity. An orgasm shared between five unlike souls. The mountain top was danced upon for what seemed like numerous lifetimes, and then inevitably the calm reclaimed us all. It's hard to remember anything immediately before or after the earthquake. It was perfect and pure. No ones to keep or brag about, remembrance was the only remnant.

We left that bathroom quietly and never spoke of it again.

It seems that this life provides few moments to reassure any of us of the existence of God, or at least of the existence of some free flowing metaphysical something or another. This was one of those rare glimpses into true unbridled felicity. I enjoyed the little death, La petite mort as the french say, and relish the idea of future mountains to climb.