October 6, 2010 § Leave a comment
Like a feeling of falling comes surprisingly close, like punctuation escapes me. You never stop, most nights you are a comma, or a semicolon, as if something is left unexplained.
Perhaps it is the wind, it comes like the palm of a madwoman and from nowhere.
Today is the day for forecasting the loves of foremothers. As if I, in my pyjamas, suddenly know why they were chosen and did not choose. And whom, and where, and why. I am enlightened. Yet I am not she, who chose a marching piper to stand beside her. I am not she, who watched him toss his matches on the bridge. I am not she, who left her family for her gravity. I am not she, who travelled only in her head.
I too have a riddle and if you cry ‘get into my pores’ once more, I will love you for it all over. Time again. You are my skeleton, I keep you hush-hush hidden in the cupboard by the shutters. Like I left little notes all over our house and then, realising my own selfish intention, collected them one by one and tore them top to bottom. Who am I?
It is not my place to make this place a better one. Never mind the world. It is not my place.
Yet then come the eyes, and it feels good to be watched, to be applauded. Like I want to be discovered. And that is the only function of my skeleton; to be discovered. I just want reaction. I want to be found, like the toy you discarded at Grandma’s and later locate, missing an eye or a soul.
That’s me. I want to be found like the bones of a wise woman buried crossways, clutching her hexes and her heartlessness.
Like the smoke in your lungs you breathed in but forgot to let escape, which buried itself in your alveoli and swore to be your end. Which was nigh, anyway.
Always I am searching for a meaning for a function for a point in which to exist with intention and this scares me. Can there be so little enjoyment in this world that I must give it occupation?