The Aegir Ridge

I am prisoner to humanity's most creatively crippled monuments. Rotten parts and crossbeams whose only pulse is the steady thrum of termites and the gelatinous fear of movement.

Every time we build this barn, we have to watch it fall apart.

The families of cockroaches and cows surviving inside don't even bother filing out; they'll survive the fallout, and we'll be dumb enough to still cook and eat their flesh. The roaches won't even touch us without cleaning themselves.

Our parents smile again as we erect these pillars, the local priest and all his parish will pat us gratefully on our backs again.

"Ya done good, kid. Ya put your daddy's place back in order."
I grimace and can't wait to watch it burn.

There's a thousand different endings. Outside, the wind still whips; I watch the mercury crack and slide slowly out the bottom, pooling in mock disgust and laughing at my naivete. I don't know what to make of it anymore.

"What's so wrong with glasses?"
"Nothing. Unless they know you're coming."
Werewolves and shapeshifters--some call it paranoia. I know they're all after me. They look just like my bro. Their fangs seem to smile even in their sleep. They're tossing and turning on my borrowed couch. I know it's coming.

What in the hell are they waiting for?

We pry open car doors. My friends don't bother locking theirs. The vehicle lurches into the night. I should feel gravity giving up as we're climbing through the timberline. It's a bumpy ride. And the lead that replaced my lungs and stomach slips deeper down inside me.

"This is where we lose reception," he says, pointing to the display on his cell phone. My other friend nods in acknowledgement. The driver presses on, and I feel the world slur drunkenly. The car seems to vomit and barrel roll through the night.

"Remember the last time we were here?" I ask. Quizzical stares. "What? It was the same as now. We were running for our lives then, too."
"You feeling okay?"
"I don't know how you can be so fucking flippant about this."
If we could jump right over the river, ignore the coming crevasse and float right on...We'd float downstream. Would our souls wash ashore? Would the local police know how to identify them, strap tags onto our dreams, ambitions, and best intentions?

I realize what's been eating at me when every dream is nothing but a metaphor for descent.

The driver turns the dial; the music is more brooding. It's louder than before, and I have no choice but to settle further back into the leather and hope this drive will be different from the last. I can already see us at the end crawling out of the car, scrambling for something still.

And where the fuck did I lose the last five years?

This mountain grows deeper every year. I sleep in the wake of its shadow. And my body is the divide.