(no subject)
The umbrella she holds protects her, it creates her own cocoon, her sanctuary in the midst of the noise and the confusion. Outside of it, it is noisy and hectic, and cars zoom by and horns honk and water splashes positively everywhere, but she is grateful. Grateful because this ruckus and havoc covers the whispers and the pitter-patter of the rain....
je t'aime je t'aime je t'aime je t'aime
She knows everything, understands everything because that was how she just is. But she can't for the life of her understand this whispering, this near-silent murmuring that, even through the whooshing of the cars and the honking of the horns and the music and the noise, is heard, because it is around her, it soaks her to the skin and she does not like this. This is not how she lives. So she hurries home in her umbrella cocoon, trying to block out the splashing and the swishswishswish of the car tyres.
She makes it home, so she is glad, and relieved, because those tiny, thin, pale, rain voices won't get to her, and she wants to take a shower, and she turns on the taps. But then, then, that rushing and that gushing reminds her of Iout there and it becomes too much to bear for her, and her hand is burned, and no,, she will not take a shower, not now, not ever.
She wants to cook.
The knife and the chopping board and vegetables, wholesome and goodness and for her health, they had said. And she stations herself in front of the sink, and the silver of the blade of the knife reflects the dim kitchen light. The blade rises; and she forgets about the pitter patter and the rain until -
wo ai ni wo ai ni wo ai ni wo ai ni
- the splattering of the drops against the window, and a stinging pain, and crimson beads well up from the opening in her skin. She embraces the pain and she wants to forget, forget those twists of the air that had tunnelled their way into her ears and round her head and through her mind. She embraces the pain as she disinfects, cleanses the wound, to try and forget. For once in her life she is scared. What is this, what are these words, what do they mean...
She crawls under the covers, bandaged finger, empty stomach, grimy hair. But she does not care, doesn't want to hear or feel this, this sickening murmuring and whispering and she wants to hide. Covers pulled up above her head, a dark cave, muffling the rain on the window:
i love you i love you i love you i love you...
je t'aime je t'aime je t'aime je t'aime
She knows everything, understands everything because that was how she just is. But she can't for the life of her understand this whispering, this near-silent murmuring that, even through the whooshing of the cars and the honking of the horns and the music and the noise, is heard, because it is around her, it soaks her to the skin and she does not like this. This is not how she lives. So she hurries home in her umbrella cocoon, trying to block out the splashing and the swishswishswish of the car tyres.
She makes it home, so she is glad, and relieved, because those tiny, thin, pale, rain voices won't get to her, and she wants to take a shower, and she turns on the taps. But then, then, that rushing and that gushing reminds her of Iout there and it becomes too much to bear for her, and her hand is burned, and no,, she will not take a shower, not now, not ever.
She wants to cook.
The knife and the chopping board and vegetables, wholesome and goodness and for her health, they had said. And she stations herself in front of the sink, and the silver of the blade of the knife reflects the dim kitchen light. The blade rises; and she forgets about the pitter patter and the rain until -
wo ai ni wo ai ni wo ai ni wo ai ni
- the splattering of the drops against the window, and a stinging pain, and crimson beads well up from the opening in her skin. She embraces the pain and she wants to forget, forget those twists of the air that had tunnelled their way into her ears and round her head and through her mind. She embraces the pain as she disinfects, cleanses the wound, to try and forget. For once in her life she is scared. What is this, what are these words, what do they mean...
She crawls under the covers, bandaged finger, empty stomach, grimy hair. But she does not care, doesn't want to hear or feel this, this sickening murmuring and whispering and she wants to hide. Covers pulled up above her head, a dark cave, muffling the rain on the window:
i love you i love you i love you i love you...