Slowly but surely we will be updating our webpage to bring you content from our magazine, events, and information regarding Montage! Please stay tuned for all of the exciting new things we will be doing this year including an updated site, a new podcast on McK Radio, and special content!
Why are you so thick? Why are you so thin?
I see you gave yourself nuts, how big do you feel now?
You hurt me. You know you did.
As I watched, you sit there, staring at me.
I know if I get too close, if I open that jar and take one lick.
That one lick.
It would kill me and you know it. That is why you are sitting.
I know but I want to anyway, and you know it.
That is why we ended right here.
With the jar empty. My body on the floor.
I feel you in me, moving along my body parts.
I stare at the jar and realize.
You were my escape from life.
I swaddle in the black blankets of night. In doing this, I am protected. With the moon, the Sun is exiled below the (what I conclude to be) razed surface beyond, and cannot peak in her meddlesome head through the gaps in the wall, revealing to me the room as she inspects. At night, I can ignore the dust, settled as snow, and the sporadic, wooden desks that have been reduced to only a rusted base. Here, I can go blind to the insurmountable path of gashes and pitfalls that a stick of chalk would need to conquer to fulfill its ambition. I can reject the halted clock in the corner as well. I have long lost the skill to read it, anyway. And, when all light is banished from my sight, I can forget the man in the room.
Continually, he sits on a bent frame. What it once was, I do not know. As he sits, he stares. I have been in the mind of this man before, and have come back with nothing but a pitch void. What he stares at is infinite. At night, his senses can be lulled, but when the twisted Sun’s out in the day, he is compelled to gape over the small, worthless article of whatever antiquity crosses over his sight. A dent in the wall. A fried corner of yellowed paper. A dried pen scattered among a dozen others. His eyes do not follow the detail, rather, they get lost in the hallowed contour.
Space has swelled. Staring upon the minute, the man is presented with his experience by the being of Eternity. In return, the man gives up, to the celestial creature, his irreparable lot. For, his only sense of time is light and dark. He used to be able to count out the steady alteration of this light, he had known how often sanctuary had come about, but the numbers ran together and, eventually, the abstract skill was stolen by Eternity as well.
I am this man’s only companion in his silent world. However, I’ve failed in that exact task. Fears of asthmatic attacks upon my non-existent lungs corrupt my action as I go to kick up a few layers of dust. I talk of attacking the man, assaulting him off his perch of self-pity, but my weightless body becomes suddenly fixed to its spot. I want to demolish the brick wall into the deadly shards I know it aches to become. I want the weathered foundation to fall, stirring the idle man. I want myself to be stirred by the action. I want the man to finally realize how foolish he is, how he is, perhaps, deserving of his fate; accepting that he cannot leave. I want the man to understand that I am him. I forget it myself from time to time, but this man is me.
Oh, I’ve lost such a certainly invaluable sum to time; being unable to reminisce of a name or of a face in my limitless space. Sorely, do I regret, not being able to grasp back the feeling of weight my body once bared. The feeling, too, of my pained moment of death.
I’ve yet to recall (and I am doubtful that I will ever be able to recall) the harsh, fluttering scent of rot that surrounds me. Nor can I retain the fixed image of demonic schoolchildren being cycled through the exact, automated system that once obliged them to leave me.
For, before I abstractly counted each second of my time (only to lose recollection of the precise number upon a perceived momentary dip in my conscious), I had hoped to leave this building. For me, it was a matter of escape. But, as it is apparent, the shackles this place deceitfully slipped around my throat held firm. And I stayed. To stare. To swell. To desire the place to fall. For, when that happens, either my fetters will break, or, as I may now desire, will remain strong in their aged state and drag me to the depths along with my dictator.
A recurring dream: He is in some garden immemorial, colorless and long forsaken by its caretakers. He sits at the edge of a marble fountain. It is corroded from centuries of wind and rain, and the sludge within it, once freshwater, is now suffocated by a thousand withering leaves. There are no birds, no frogs, no butterflies, just him, a solitary wind, and the slow decay of what remains.
He waits. For what or whom, he cannot rightly guess. Here, time has made its pact with lethargy. The bat of an eyelash spans ten thousand years. Every breath, inhale, exhale. It is one life cycle made complete, another closer to eternal slumber. How many more cycles shall he pluck from the air before he is lulled into Death’s merciful embrace? Still, he waits.
A disturbance: There comes a hushed rustling in some nearby shrubbery. Waves of sound strain through the heaviness of the air, but in time, they are whispering in his ear like the voice of God. His gaze searches frantically, stumbling over root and vine in search of the source, in search of the divine who calls out to him. Where are you? Why do you hide?
An appearance: It is following an eternity that she finally emerges. She is, at first glance, no mightier than a faery, a dash of glitter which slips through the sun’s outstretched fingers. But as she falls to the ground, she takes root and begin to grow. A sprout, a sapling, and finally, a woman of unsurpassed beauty. Daughter of the sun, sister of the moon, a brilliant star wrenched from the sky’s cradle and brought into his undeserving midst. The white of her dress illuminates every neglected corner of the garden’s miserable confines, and clings to her body as a cool spring mist. The weeds cower and hurriedly shrink away from her gentle step. The flowers, long dead, now lift their weary heads to smile at her. The garden sighs in relief, for from its shoulders, she has alleviated its burden.
A reunion: She floats across the grass and take her rest at his side. Time throws off its shackles resolutely. Death shrivels up before her splendor. Through her, he takes back the present, that frame of existence which rightfully belongs to the living. It always has. The garden melts into an overwhelming green, the birdsong abounds, the frogs belch, and a swarm of butterflies graces the sky. He kisses your lips, and there upon them lingers the taste of fruit so sweetly redemptive. She is his Eden restored.