Yolanda and Franz
“My darling Franz, why, you’ve lost your face,” Yolanda dreamily slurred. Franz was unresponsive; he was looking at his own body from the ceiling, wondering how it could be that he was no longer in his body but still able to comprehend the scenario with ease.
His mind seemed to be drawn upwards by some unknown force just as his body was pinned downwards by gravity. “Is my soul departing?” his confusion seemed to be a performance because everything made perfect sense. It must have just been a thought because Yolanda hadn’t responded and he could see no face on his own body to speak with.
Yolanda said something about his face again, and this suddenly filled him with agitation and anxiety. “Yolanda is so banal sometimes, and her comments are more pedestrian than sidewalks,” said Franz with his nonexistent mouth. He had an urge to destroy her. He considered this sensation, like a child studying a repulsive toad, and let it go.
A beautiful crystal tear materialized in Yolanda’s right eye, and seeing it from the height of the ceiling, Franz thought that it was the embodiment of natural beauty. It shimmered gaily with different colors of the electromagnetic spectrum. Vicious blue, serene green, and even a somewhat bureaucratic red attacked his optic nerves causing him to feel a sort of visual orgasm. He was afraid she had heard what he said; however, her tear seemed too lovely to be sad.
She was now beautiful. “I don’t care if she is dumb, she is so beautiful. So beautiful, and she is the focal point of the known universe. she is beyond nature– she is the goddess they speak of.”
Yolanda began to speak in a language which was familiar yet unintelligible, like words heard through the thick walls of a sturdy house. “…I hate sarcasm,” he finally understood, “can we make this a sarcasm-free zone, my darling?”
He understood completely. He began to be pulled in another direction. Instead of returning into his own body, he felt himself sucked toward her. He suddenly noticed that she, too, was both within and without her body. Her face was leaving its physical shell and slowly sublimating into the ether of the room.
Their spirits mingled, and he felt closer to her than he could think possible. Yet he harbored no sexual thoughts– the connection took place beyond sex in a metaphysical world which contained no atoms, but only light.
Although they occupied the same space, a true connection could not be formed. It was as though he were made of oil and she of balsamic vinegar, doomed to forever swim together yet apart. “The fabric of the universe is rather unstable isn’t it?” she asked in an ethereal voice. It was not her voice, it was the universal sound crystallized into specific vibrations. He responded in the same tone, “I am its creator.” Their voice was one and it seemed as if their thoughts were identical.
“I am its creator,” she said.
“I am its creator,” someone said; individuality was lost.
“I love,” they both said. And it was clear to both of them that the infinite meaning of the term was perfectly captured in this moment.
“I could just die. Like literally die.”
Dark red. Maroon. Suddenly, everything grew dimmer. For some reason, the flesh on his body ruptured and burst, tearing away. He floated higher and higher. There was a dark mark on Yolanda’s breast from whence the marvelous fibers of her spirit had broken out. She was nearing him.
That’s right, it had all been planned. The mushrooms with psychedelic properties had made it easy. Once spiritual balance is reached, and the individual allowed to melt in the heat of infinite love, death is the next step. They had both understood the moment, and it was beautiful that they had chosen to enter the next step together.
As the walls of the inexpensive motel melted away, his and Yolanda’s spirits spiraled skywards like strands of DNA.
They hurtled toward a void, two impossibly bright beams of light. There, at the end of it all, was light brighter than theirs by an unimaginable magnitude. And soon, they were indistinguishable in its bright mass.