Friday, October 24, 2008


The rivulets raced each other down the outside of the window. They went smoothly over their well-traced paths, gathering other drops on their descent: recruiting troops for gravity’s march. If it had been dusty, like it used to be, rain would be a welcome novelty. Like it used to be: dust caked like a skin, water tapping like a sculptor’s hammer. Dry earth stripped, old layers left surprised and raw.

But no more. This whole town was a living thing, too fluid for bones, too transient for identity. The rain came, and no revelations came with it, just the smooth flow of one thing to another. She let her focus relax, and she saw the rain on the glass, then her own face. It was something she knew too well. Features that slid into background noise. Her well of feelings.

A bowl of old soup lay untouched on her bedside cabinet. The unstable atmosphere had lent pockmarks to its surface, clotting it into something volcanic. She had meant to empty it, but it had remained, like an old and stubborn thought. Her legs felt chalky under her nightdress; when she moved them together they sniffed like corduroy. All around her, this desiccative cold.

She longed for the mosquito-heat of long ago, spiralling like smoke, reaching under clothes to tickle your skin and sweat. Heat that was bright and joyous, the celebration of an endless season.
She licked her lips, and pressed her forehead to the window. The glass gave in with a small bump. She closed her eyes, and the water on the shore came to her, the shore that washed beneath her window. Her thoughts were rippled tide foam. Something would change, she thought. Something must.


lucychili said...

The world spins some long dance
Clockwork for different pieces
I dont fit but there is nothing else to hold fast to
so I try to mesh with the dance
Grinding teeth and running out of time.

lucychili said...

There is a smooth wall between my self
and my body. There is no purchase or access except by way of fear. The scanning of my self has written wide freeways of fear. I stand on the verge.
Chicken crossing the road.

People drive or walk by, traffic for the road, full of sounds and laughter.
They express frustration at my slow moving shaky path.

It does not feel like progress
Daily the fear owns me and there are fewer ways to hold to my own purpose.