What Princeton has done to me
Some questions cannot be answered
Her pockets are bulging, her shoulders sagging from the weight as she slowly turns to look at me. Such desolation in her eyes, such volumes they speak of how her curiosity turned into an unimaginable burden. Such deadened eyes.
They become familiar weights in hand
She reaches out to me, and it's all I can do to stop from cringing. She can barely lift her arms, that poor lady. All those stones, almost spilling out of her pocket, yet still she labours on, carrying their weight with her, careful not to lose any of them.
Round stones pulled from the pocket
But a stone finds its way out, rolling out of a gaping pocket. A tiny exclamation escapes her lips, and as she reaches down her pockets empty and the stones roll out. They seem to have a life of their own, rolling away with abandon as she wrings her hands in dismay.
Unyielding and cool
I don't know why she does this - why she collects these inscrutable rocks only to be held back by their weight. Her dismay turns to anger, and inexplicably she wheels around and slaps me. I can see the effort she puts into this, but her clammy hands dissolve as soon as they touch my cheek.
She crumbles - literally crumbles - into dust, carried away by the wind, while the stones lie on the ground, silently taunting. But the red coat is still intact. I pick it up, reveling in its soft fabric, and as - for some reason - I put it on, I start to gather all the stones that have fallen. They call out to me, yet as I touch them they become mute again, and I know that I'm destined to hold them till I too fade away one day in the breeze. Until then I'll be haunted by her memory, while the stones quietly eat away at my soul. I can see my eyes now - changing in the light, little cataracts of a life lost.
Her pockets are bulging, her shoulders sagging from the weight as she slowly turns to look at me. Such desolation in her eyes, such volumes they speak of how her curiosity turned into an unimaginable burden. Such deadened eyes.
They become familiar weights in hand
She reaches out to me, and it's all I can do to stop from cringing. She can barely lift her arms, that poor lady. All those stones, almost spilling out of her pocket, yet still she labours on, carrying their weight with her, careful not to lose any of them.
Round stones pulled from the pocket
But a stone finds its way out, rolling out of a gaping pocket. A tiny exclamation escapes her lips, and as she reaches down her pockets empty and the stones roll out. They seem to have a life of their own, rolling away with abandon as she wrings her hands in dismay.
Unyielding and cool
I don't know why she does this - why she collects these inscrutable rocks only to be held back by their weight. Her dismay turns to anger, and inexplicably she wheels around and slaps me. I can see the effort she puts into this, but her clammy hands dissolve as soon as they touch my cheek.
She crumbles - literally crumbles - into dust, carried away by the wind, while the stones lie on the ground, silently taunting. But the red coat is still intact. I pick it up, reveling in its soft fabric, and as - for some reason - I put it on, I start to gather all the stones that have fallen. They call out to me, yet as I touch them they become mute again, and I know that I'm destined to hold them till I too fade away one day in the breeze. Until then I'll be haunted by her memory, while the stones quietly eat away at my soul. I can see my eyes now - changing in the light, little cataracts of a life lost.