It is odd how some moments can make little slivers in the fabric of space which surrounds you, causing the walls to bleed, gasp for air, reminding us how old scars formed. They have faded but the memory not forgotten. Like a fish sprung from water, we anticipate aspiration, pretend we are in the right circumstance. Air becomes rain so we can breathe. Tenderly wipe away each tear as though it were a droplet from the sky, once sunny, now filled with clouds - seemingly from nowhere. Immerse our faces into the water so no one is able to know the source of the rivers flowing down the contours of our cheeks.
Make everything silent, because that's all there is. Silence. When there are words, they become stacked into a wayward column, waiting to topple over. These words, once released, follow their own capricious, wanton, or depraved inclinations. These words are not “right,” they are inclined to produce against what is desired or expected. Now, only capable of composing a cacophony that my unstable heart seems able to hear and understand. When the walls have become red and the fish cannot breathe, silence.
Remain still while thoughts linger on empty pages, pressed with the wings of a fairy. The beautiful words that may have emerged now lay crumbled and folded and dried. Destroyed in my desire to keep them forever, the color has gone and the billowy air has taken the little life left off of the pages. Foolish to believe in fairies, foolish to hold on to my memory of what I thought I had. My pages lay empty, my wings, torn.
Reaching the end of an empty book. There never was any intent to write anything there. Lost within my own magic show of light, colors, and hope. The inkwell wrote invisibly and I thought that I could see. Life is fragile and so are we.
From whom has this illusion been sedulously fostered?
