Faith, Windowsills, and Life on a Lake of Silver Prayers
Shadows of rusty thoughts sit cross-legged on the window sill and smoke joints filled with sweet sunshine and a clear, bitter underglaze of early morning chill. Baby explosions of powdered blue fireworks erupt softly from one end. Bridging the gap. The sheet of glass keeps her outside. She makes little effort to enter. She isn't ready yet.
Thoughts..and their shadows, leaning, bending, boiling water, tucking in Baby, and....laughing. Household mechanics. Blind reflexes to conditioned stimuli.
Thoughts...running. They run on the narrow edge of an old stone building. Small green faces peeping out of chaliced gaps in packed stone. They run. They don't open their eyes. They just run.
She takes a deep breath. Puffs of blue smoke turn midstream, and flow towards her heat. Smoke in her blood. Blue in red. One eyelid flickers. Like a candle flame, it shakes a little, sweats a little. She reaches out. One hand touches the rushing water that surges through the pane of glass. She reaches out. Cold.
Running thoughts. Scampering, hopping, scurrying thoughts. The walls of the old stone building are a happy-go-lucky stacking of this over that. And the thoughts, they run. The walls are a swollen moon, grey and round and defiantly eroded. Thoughts...running in a circle. Eyes clenched, lips pursed, heads down. Running.
She hears something. The glass does not divide. It has betrayed. It must pay. But later. Right now...right now, she needs the silence. She presses one ear like white, wadded cotton wool, against sharp, cold, perfectly splinterable glass. The cold smiles faintly in triumph. She has an opening.
Thoughts are tiring. Running, but tiring.One of them gets its foot caught in a thin, stone splinter clawing out from a crevice in the stone. It falls.
For some, the widow's walk facing a sun they never get to see because it blinds them, is over.
She finishes her joint. Some last blue feathers of spun sugar and manafactured bliss(that comes in white paper triangles), sway drunkenly between her heat and the glass. Silence watches. She opens her eyes and removes her hand. She folds the silence, the cold and the glass in a neat little square and swallows it in one gulp and beneath the deluge of a shortlived permission to reminisce. Her blood catches it and holds it close. Deep, and buried,...but close.
The fallen thought has found a new wall. From here, it can even watch one side of the sun as it sets. It wonders why it never looked. Who, it thinks, is really blind?....
She opens her arms. Embraces the noise. Drinks into life. Dances.
Thoughts..and their shadows, leaning, bending, boiling water, tucking in Baby, and....laughing. Household mechanics. Blind reflexes to conditioned stimuli.
Thoughts...running. They run on the narrow edge of an old stone building. Small green faces peeping out of chaliced gaps in packed stone. They run. They don't open their eyes. They just run.
She takes a deep breath. Puffs of blue smoke turn midstream, and flow towards her heat. Smoke in her blood. Blue in red. One eyelid flickers. Like a candle flame, it shakes a little, sweats a little. She reaches out. One hand touches the rushing water that surges through the pane of glass. She reaches out. Cold.
Running thoughts. Scampering, hopping, scurrying thoughts. The walls of the old stone building are a happy-go-lucky stacking of this over that. And the thoughts, they run. The walls are a swollen moon, grey and round and defiantly eroded. Thoughts...running in a circle. Eyes clenched, lips pursed, heads down. Running.
She hears something. The glass does not divide. It has betrayed. It must pay. But later. Right now...right now, she needs the silence. She presses one ear like white, wadded cotton wool, against sharp, cold, perfectly splinterable glass. The cold smiles faintly in triumph. She has an opening.
Thoughts are tiring. Running, but tiring.One of them gets its foot caught in a thin, stone splinter clawing out from a crevice in the stone. It falls.
For some, the widow's walk facing a sun they never get to see because it blinds them, is over.
She finishes her joint. Some last blue feathers of spun sugar and manafactured bliss(that comes in white paper triangles), sway drunkenly between her heat and the glass. Silence watches. She opens her eyes and removes her hand. She folds the silence, the cold and the glass in a neat little square and swallows it in one gulp and beneath the deluge of a shortlived permission to reminisce. Her blood catches it and holds it close. Deep, and buried,...but close.
The fallen thought has found a new wall. From here, it can even watch one side of the sun as it sets. It wonders why it never looked. Who, it thinks, is really blind?....
She opens her arms. Embraces the noise. Drinks into life. Dances.
posted by Shekure Darashikoh at 10:16 AM
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