Aza! She is confined, coinciding with the treacherous like a coincidental trilogy, giving way to the three delusions of change: the second, the minute, the hour. She is of the tropics. Not of this earth. kneeling against the Sycamore Fig, eating Tabernathe iboga seeds to evade her angst. She bathes in Artemisia afra to cure her headache. But the earth she can't escape. It's only a hallucination: when the warmth springs up inside of her like an ethereal climax, and the sun sizzles the grass, fries the plantains, the sweet melon juice, dripping from her lips. Tabernanthe iboga, the master of her delusion. Is she an illusion? Philanthropic figures everywhere, so that she never forgets the oath: Love. Aza owes me nothing. We pay each time we collide. Eyes, lips, mouth: engage. Her heart beats like a trombone, echoic. Spasm after spasm after spasm. Does Atremisia afra cure that, too? When she lies in the ocean, will she float? Or will she swim? For we coincide by the sea, floating and drowning simultaneously. The waves splash against her, and she's lucidly awake, lucidly confined by the hallucination, the aphrodisiac of peace, the master of the pawns. Aza, she bets on the escape. She will float. I will swim to drown. We are the coincidences, artifacts of the sea, byproducts of the hallucination. But even the pawns know that we are not a factor of coincidence. We are confined by water, by earth, by plant; I am a plant; Aza is an illusion. I will drink water to cure myself, to break through the confinement. And to cure the ache in my chest, afra. And to cure the ache in my belly, afra.
(Some researchers note that Artemisia afra might be a remedy for the perils and stresses of today’s society. Sometimes I’m so worried that the worries feel like hallucinations. When I’m so happy, I suppress the exhilaration to the extent that it becomes a delusion. And I blossom at the site of change. I evolve with people and their individual experiences. It’s all lust.)
Copyright © 2018 by Aylin Sozen