through
Slightly skewed. Viewed tiltingly, turned a tiny angle sleight, mounting a slight assault on the eyes. Pull lids closed. Duck and cover, for fear of bombardment. What made him think about the journey on his pushbike up? What was in her thoughts, writing her letter to no-one and everyone?
Unrest. Unquiet. Don’t want anyone to know. Keep it. Not a secret. Not a lie. Somewhere between the two. Place it in your own book, amidst leaves of distrust. Pieces of paper do not matter. Paper is fuel for fires, paper soaks indiscriminate inks away from the flowing well. Papers spent a good few months creating, inking stories. Nudging nuances with the pen, writing friendships, tracing fluttering circles of social interest, names, places, meetings. All on paper. Pens can draw people, but do not write them.
I can picture the scene now. Another unslept night; another pile of emotion laying discarded in front of your door. We don’t open the entrance to strangers. No circulars, no newspapers. Left, and quiet. Eyes dart. Book will come on the journey. Pick up pen, locate discarded telephone bill. Make marks with childlike accuracy on its rear, full of advice and help. Mention words of no consequence amongst those of aid. It doesn’t look quite right. Pack the paper into as small a ball as it would go, pressing thumb against thumb, fighting hands, one on one. Fifteen of one, a dozen and three of the other. No sense. Flickering conflict. They don’t need to know.
Up and gone. Pedal the fifteen or so miles to the top of the hill. Look down. Below lies a sea. A town. An army of friendship left behind. But this only spurs forward, provides the mechanism with which to drive wheels on and on, another cycle. Time to turn. Turn or make excuses? The one thing to control is your own destiny. To take life in your hands. Seize the day.
Stumblingly roused from a frowning thought, four fifteen. It happened then. I could tell. I was there. A passing stranger, to see the screaming stars in a navy sky, feeling the whipping tatters of clothes mainstay on the mast of trunk and watch as the past threw itself away.
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