Our relationship is an occasional continent of Arab nations wantonly annexing territories and adamantly refusing to coexist; It just sometimes begs for peace. Just a few days ago, when my word was refused to be taken as the bible, I left the bedroom and took my histrionics with me to the living room and punctuated the whole performance with 'banging the door shut.' Simmering in a mostly self-generated vexation exclusively aimed at the boy and his doubts, I established a patrolled neutral border abutting on his territory and mine. As such, the map of ephemeral peace was: bedroom, his; living room mine with the wall separating the sane from their wits. Contempt is not a very good company by the way, in a dingy barn of a room. No wonder the animals who flock and infest the place always do so in herds. Our apartmentmate will call them friends, but that's generally a matter of opinion.
Immersed in isolation, one attains a heightened sense of reality. And insecurity. Five minutes into the exile and already I was hungry for company. In an instant, the bleak monotony was shattered by a bat--that nocturnal ebony winged cave-dweller--which declared its ominous presence with a flurried flutter of wings. I didn't have time to question its interest at cohabitation nor did I have time to appreciate its kind thought of proffering its society to me. Trespassing borders, seeking asylum and survival ultimately took precedence. I charged into the boy's room and declared unequivocal peace and issued a cry to get rid of the thing.
He didn't do much, of course. Then again, 'much' is relative. To some, regarding one's hysterical girlfriend with a cynical eye, walking out of the bedroom to investigate on the alleged bat infiltration, shrieking at the sight of it, rushing quickly back to the comforting arms of the bedroom are 'much.' But there's something about sharing a common shriek that is rather comforting: Shriek and I'll shriek with you.
Inevitably, peace was restored; borders were broken. Our relationship is an occasional continent of warring Arab nations and a constant United Nations.
Immersed in isolation, one attains a heightened sense of reality. And insecurity. Five minutes into the exile and already I was hungry for company. In an instant, the bleak monotony was shattered by a bat--that nocturnal ebony winged cave-dweller--which declared its ominous presence with a flurried flutter of wings. I didn't have time to question its interest at cohabitation nor did I have time to appreciate its kind thought of proffering its society to me. Trespassing borders, seeking asylum and survival ultimately took precedence. I charged into the boy's room and declared unequivocal peace and issued a cry to get rid of the thing.
He didn't do much, of course. Then again, 'much' is relative. To some, regarding one's hysterical girlfriend with a cynical eye, walking out of the bedroom to investigate on the alleged bat infiltration, shrieking at the sight of it, rushing quickly back to the comforting arms of the bedroom are 'much.' But there's something about sharing a common shriek that is rather comforting: Shriek and I'll shriek with you.
Inevitably, peace was restored; borders were broken. Our relationship is an occasional continent of warring Arab nations and a constant United Nations.
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