Why Gemïny

*Excerpts from “Victorias Secret”

There’s no telling where you’ll meet her. Nevertheless, you’ll know when you’ve arrived. The waters will be clear as crystal. A sacred glass encasing for the ornate scenes below. The vibrant violets, frisky fuchsias,  regal reds, and glorious golds refract seamlessly through it’s crystalline stream; while the elegant silhouettes of remarkable creatures move seamlessly through it’s wake. Shimmering water, completely untainted  by the virulent toxins of the world. Meanwhile, if you look up, the endless array of muslin clouds will be lined with an angelic silver silk that radiates a bright sensual warmth that not even the sun could replicate. The ground like velvet sand taking hold and keeping you grounded in the moment. This moment, where at the edge of the skies, your only source of light is brilliant diamonds glistening: serenely descending, upon Her. She will stand domineeringly, center stage under the luxurious light. It will be in that moment that you’ll know you’ve arrived. And it will be painfully clear you don’t belong. But you’ll want to: need to. Because that’s where she is. 

Obsession: a stygian little temptress. She twirls ever so elegantly in her lucent black satin dress. It’s simple, but not plain. An important description as the subtle ripples of it’s skirt engulf the alluring curves of her waste as she spins: playfully calling you closer as the wavelets twist and twirl. Meanwhile, her supple fingers pinch them at the tip to expose her valiant thighs. A glean of her eyes provide an inciting invite, and she holds your gaze as you carelessly walk closer. Helplessly entranced as the diamond-lit sky begins to dim; an overcast creeps. 

The light from her effervescent smile replaces the pure spotlight that once was. Not that it matters; all details become irrelevant as you transfix upon her necromantic eyes. The darkest eyes— something like the somber, bleak depths of the sea. Slowly you’re lost in the supple waves, and you fail to notice the rolling roar of gray despair as the wind ruffles her hair. The waves following suite, playfully jostling at your feet a feverish pitter patter that alludes a captivating dissonance you can’t quite place. Yet, to it’s tantalizing tune, you sway as a burning flame erupts in your heart radiating a blazing courage as you dredge through the tides now nipping at your waist. Ravenous key grappling to draw her closer as you swim feverishly.  Frantically panting in your athletic pursuit, grasping for air as the tip of your finger finally grazes against hers when the weight of the world surges forward colliding catastrophically towards you. Without notice remnants of broken ships thrust against you as you fall aimlessly through this tyrannical tyrant. Rapidly drifting  through this aquatic whirlwind. Hurling hectically past cataclysmic scenes from the past: fragments leaving only the remnants of destruction as her light continues to fade. Drifting further, and further away. Until you shot upon the bleak coasts of Atlantis. Where you discover that the utopia you’ve always dreamed of, is nothing more than than a grim grave yard tainted by murky black sands and mutilated seas. Skeletal splinters, and lifeless wraiths deprived of ego left aimlessly wandering through this stygian abyss. You discover the ethereally vibrant reefs once adorned by lucrative dreams of gold dust and the essence of a vivacious sunset, are now bleached of all their color leaving only a ghastly grey hue of despair. You realize you sit alone in a castle of sand amongst a desolate graveyard destitute of all treasure. A wasteland defined by greed and erratic destruction. 

It was a scene much like the one I woke up. A broken head dangled faintly over my head. To my right a harrowingly pale ghost laid. Her beach blonde hair slithered over my nose; just barley missing it’s chance to suffocate me. I climbed out of bed crunching my foot against a crumbles bag of Doritos. The sound sending an alarming jolt through my spine. Suddenly I had this raging urge to run. A survival instinct squeezing my lungs to expulsion, screaming to escape. I couldn’t really place the feeling at the time, I wasn’t new to this, I’d never missed a 4am departure before. Today certainly wouldn’t be my first time. But still for some reason there was this impatient plead for urgency as I closed the door to her dorm room, and you guessed it: walked home. 

Ain’t nobody got time for that. 

I lived through my mundane experiences of skipping my 8:30 class and showing up to music theory at 10:15-ish... (on a good day). Then I'd get lunch at the pristine Darla Moore School of music. Then head back to practicing my daily scales and repertoire after hours, then heading home around 2am. Everyday the same thing sometimes I’d go home and actually do my aural skills hw (very rare occasion) others i’d go hang out with the squad in 109 maybe sneak in a few hours at the gym. But my life early freshman year was pretty mundane. 

How things change… 

Anyways, I digress, I came home the next day to a bouquet of roses sitting promptly outside my dorm with an eloquent letter embellished by gold letter hand signed off by... honestly I’m awful with names so we’re just gonna call her Jolina Goldberg. And honestly i never actually read the letter, pretty sure i gave the roses to one of my friends for “safe-keeping.” I know, I know, look no one really ever claimed me to be the best guy walking. and absolutely NO ONE claimed that freshman year. I grew up, marginally. 

Anyways, 10:15am rolls around and i begin my walk through the notorious horseshoe, well i was running, trying to make it to music theory on time, pacing gingerly to ensure i didn’t embarrass myself on one of the infamous horseshoe bricks, I had high expectations of myself to never be caught lacking in public like that, not again, i ran up the stairs to the second floor, where i caught a glimpse of a golden haired wisp lurking amongst a sea of familiar faces, she must be new, I burst into class 3 minutes late — completely out of breath. I sat down at my usual seat and we returned to our previously scheduled program. But when the clock struck 2 and i walked back through the horseshoe towards my dorm there she was again the golden phantom. 

Maybe I’m just paranoid. 

Then 10:27am Jolina Goldberg spotted outside of music theory 

1:45pm across the Darla dining hall seated almost restlessly, alone. 

2am horseshoe again 

1am amongst the crowd of blissfully intoxicated souls in the “exotic” basement of school boy Brad 

I’m just paranoid. 

6am stumbling home, fighting the urge to pull the trigger for an ounce of solace, she sat lonely at the picnic tables in my dormitory courtyard. 

Thursday 10:17am cool beans coffee shop the Golden Specter stares through my soul as I sit across from my lovely study date trying to navigate the lines of anticipated motion and the strenuously strained three way tension chocking the air from the room. 

I’m just paranoid. 

10:09am the Golden Vision walks toward me starkly vanishing into an ocean of amicable as I walk through the class doors. 

2am outside of Moe’s on my way to an undisclosed rendez-vous in Green quad. 

4am: the Golden Shadow trails behind me on my leisurely walk home. 

6am: we walk into the Strom weight facilities almost as if we were stride for stride. 

Just paranoid. 

8:10am I walk out in baggy grey sweatpants and an overbearingly thick fur coat hood up, face down. As I stride out into the Carolina sun. 8:22 first floor of The school of music. Seated legs crossed staring ardently at the SOM front gates: the Golden Ghost. 8:30 I walk into Aural skills for the first time in a month eyes blood shot red drooping onto the ground, as i collapse into my seat. 

Paranoid, all my imagination. 

2am: the golden hallucination creeps casually past the windows of our 109 squad movie night. 

2:15am I fake a phone call and walk to the comfort of my room; Outside my door: roses demanding my utmost attention. 

The note reads a simple, almost inviting, “I miss you” 

Maybe I’m not paranoid? 

4am my insomnia eats at my brain as I lay awake sight singing for aural skills.

The difference between my dreams and reality is nothing but a figment of imagination. A minuscule line that strangles my thoughts as I beg to find the comforts of sanity. 

1:45am seated to my left, as I walk out the doors of the SOM basement, is the Golden Wraith… 

Run! 

Thoughts bombarded my brain with question. Who is she? Why is she here? Where can I go? My legs were shaking at the mere thought of moving, my limbs pleaded with me to succumb to her demented advances, just to feel the warm embrace of the back of my eye lids, and silk comfort of my blankets. But still there was this impatient plead for urgency. So I ran. I ran with no destination in mind, with no glimpse of a safe haven i just ran through the faux-concrete jungle of Columbia, the city of dreams, as my legs quivered and trembled beneath me, running as if my breath should reek of tequila and fireball, as i clung onto the tiny figment of air left in my lungs, as they — and I — both collapsed forward, hurling pathetically towards the brick pavement of our lovely Horseshoe. A beautiful voice sang a serene and unfamiliar tune, (westside love by Marc E. Bassy, but we’ll have to address my crime of ignorance later). An angelic voice washing all my worry away with a tone that flowed like a refreshing river surging life back into me soul. A stunning voice un-expecting of my impending advance. I collided into her throwing her onto the tender red bricks. Tender was the wrong word I definitely woke up bruised and confused. But there was something about her eyes, the way she scrunched her nose in appalled anger, the way her sun-kissed olive skin shone under the moonlight. There was something about her that finally pushed me over the edge of reality and into this magical safe-haven where there was no room for anything else to exist. This world was already at capacity solely from her wonder. She was one of those girls that I really never should have met, who in any other context would have never paid me the time of day. One of those fairytale princesses that would run off into the sunset with nothing less than a fulfilled promise of the world. 

No, this story should have never come to be. 

But there’s something about the rush, the weird chemistry behind adrenaline, and forsaken circumstances, that brought us together. Me the nobody from North Cack-a-lackey. And her the heavens flawless secret born from a platinum adorned shell that erupted from the luxurious diamond embellished ponds of downtown Boston. It was that strange mix of thrill, fear, and raw child-like excitement, that signed the dotted line amongst the stars with a condemning X, as I apologized profusely to her and explained the circumstances. To which she laughed, with her typical dorky laugh. And as I picked up her bracelet violently removed from our impact, she let out a softhearted giggle that said, “well, I guess I’ll have to be your knight in shining armor then.” She proclaimed almost as if asking permission, yet i didn’t even have the time to tilt my head in inquisition, before she took my arm and we walked back to my dorm. 

1:49am Jolina Goldberg walks with angst through the presidents garden. That was the last i saw of her for a few months. 

I wasn’t paranoid. Maybe slightly delusional. But not paranoid. 

That night I laid restlessly looking upon a silver charm encrusted by glimmering emeralds — a birth stone maybe? I had forgotten to give it back to her. Between the conversations of home, and exotic stories from our experiences around the world I honestly think i forgot to ask her name. Maybe she saved it with her number. But she had a personality that was bigger than life something like the stars. So that’s what I called her: Hollywood.