2012
I am ten years older.
And here I am, sober, serious, thoughtful, yet blank, wishing to bear fruit from a slowly drying tree. I am living, and yet I am not feeling, feeling anything. I lie breathing in a body catching up with the effort. I am a cold death on a warm morning, and I do not remember how to live.
It was all so different, I remember. The senses, the serenity of knowing it was all so right, the fragrance of emotion, the pull of my hair on my fingers, the excitement of petrol smoke. Lights cut in two on the motorway, kisses in red, promise in yellow, tears running in happiness as we blurred the lines, together.
I call a dull thud, and it doesn’t disappoint. The thud is endless, disquieting, disbelieving. I can no longer shelter under youth and the energy of madness. I can now only shelter under memory, using hands made of beautiful feathers to cover my head, from the senseless beating of rain.
Nothing makes sense, except the mundanity, which makes too much sense. I long again, for the wildly dipping and diving, rising and singing of my heart, just to know, just know there’s more than this, more in my coccoon than just a ticking clock. Because watching the time count down is sending the souls mad.
And mad inmates slow the blood, thicken the skin. Goosebumps only alight after you dig through to me. Lay the finest of fingers against my rushing, isolated veins.
And here I am, sober, serious, thoughtful, yet blank, wishing to bear fruit from a slowly drying tree. I am living, and yet I am not feeling, feeling anything. I lie breathing in a body catching up with the effort. I am a cold death on a warm morning, and I do not remember how to live.
It was all so different, I remember. The senses, the serenity of knowing it was all so right, the fragrance of emotion, the pull of my hair on my fingers, the excitement of petrol smoke. Lights cut in two on the motorway, kisses in red, promise in yellow, tears running in happiness as we blurred the lines, together.
I call a dull thud, and it doesn’t disappoint. The thud is endless, disquieting, disbelieving. I can no longer shelter under youth and the energy of madness. I can now only shelter under memory, using hands made of beautiful feathers to cover my head, from the senseless beating of rain.
Nothing makes sense, except the mundanity, which makes too much sense. I long again, for the wildly dipping and diving, rising and singing of my heart, just to know, just know there’s more than this, more in my coccoon than just a ticking clock. Because watching the time count down is sending the souls mad.
And mad inmates slow the blood, thicken the skin. Goosebumps only alight after you dig through to me. Lay the finest of fingers against my rushing, isolated veins.