another tale
I can’t take this any more. Not this tiny corner of reality, into which my fingertips are buried in the soil and clinging on.
No more skirting around the truth. No more slant stories. No further truths hidden away in the most secret place just between your eyes. Here it is, brutal and honest.
You deserved to see it all. It wasn’t you who wanted to, of course. But you deserved, all the same. The view of the world through someone else’s vision. Where are you right now? If you can, if you wish, if you will, prise your hands apart, just for a second. Use them as a tool to open up my skull and climb in, taking care to confuse all the brain wires twisting and turning around in the mess of ports and receptors lurking in thoughtspace. There’s a seat waiting for you, with a warm cup of tea and your name written all over it. I’ve had time enough to etch it into the peeling orange varnish of the garish furnishing a thousand times over. Waiting. Waiting for that one perfect moment, which never arrives.
We’re working from a blanksheet map, but do not worry, we will write the names of the towns and roads, rivers and hills in time. There’ll not be the same destination…
More time spent with cup of tea in hand, thinking. You. Where are you again? Oh, in this place neither of us has seen; planting idea seeds in a small windowbox, cultivating the tiny blue flowers which could bloom in tomorrow time. Back to the heres and nows: Did I love my life in the dust? Was its existence merely a diversion, an excuse, lacquer to paint the front door with, to tell you that I could cope on my own? In that case, you’d never see the back of this door, burnt and charred from the lick and spit of flamefire. Today is more about tomorrow than yesterday could have been. I wish to see the new blooms, water them and leave them in the warm sunshine to drink the acrid rainfall wrung from the cloud sponge above the city’s head.
If time were endless, there would be a forever waiting tonight. No more goodbyes. Just an endless succession of tiny moments. shadow scenes, created with fingerpaint, splattered from on high. The last time we reached such heights, the waterspray tried to stifle our laughter. This time, calmer seas lapped at ankles, whispering at the shore to move onwards and forwards or be caught in the water forever. I just wanted to drown.
They have deemed my time to be a little over three days. Very little time. Give me words. Pass me hurridly scribbled notes, pencilled with phrases to use. Helpful and assistive. Fraught and descriptive. I’m going to need them, trying to explain that for the last …
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