shards of a saturday
screamed awake by something else’s search for wakefulness in a sleeping world.
confronted by emotion hawks; confused. They are searching for any piece of detritus left behind in the wake of an explosion of flour, salt and dust, all of which hangs in the air, making it impossible for us to breathe. Dousing the hanging mustyness with water would only add to a messy suspension of dough, sticking clumsily in the air, baking stifled situations in the lungs.
I wish each day did not succumb to a search; and would finish with a flourish instead.
(Eyes hazily glaze over, at mention of whatever…blah, blah…)
I’m out there. In the middle of it all. Looking up. The sky is full of clouds, there is nothing more beautiful than feeling it; reaching right up there and grabbing a handful of cloud to bring home and place on the mantelpiece. We could put it in a special glass box, watch it create its own temperate climate in its five inch square microcosm.
You know i’m never coming down from those clouds, don’t you?
Encased here in my cage, I have seen more visions than the outside could ever bring. Only slightly bruised, but mere physical ties do not translate to how the soul lies.
In the other world’s sense, damaged goods. Un-orange-sprayed, tied together with bits of twig and twine, recklessly abandoned, wth small pieces threatening to escape at every turn. Passed from one owner to the next, all hoping to try and fix this broken object in some way. Trying to help; trying to create new plasticine pieces to add in and make everything alright again.
But the plasticine does not stay; it breaks down, falls out, and makes us sad that someone tried to fit a solution in, that their idea of perfection was change from what we are already. That they could not appreciate all that we hate, and all that we love. How we are broken. What is our inspiration; what makes us turn insipid. How we cannot be fixed.
A beautifully divine imperfection.
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