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And How We Search

Those plants swayed above me in a windless sky.The peculiar occurrance did not ruffle me in the slightest. Why should it? If nothing is sure in this world, then why would the science of wind and movement be constant? I walked forward, a black figure against a changing world. The seasons blended together. To my right it was a cornucopia of color.  To my left downy feathers fell from the sky, coating the ground in its baseness. The way ahead of me moved.

The soil on which I stood was dark and rich at times. Though, often, it was hard and dry. It crumbled underneath my cumbersome weight.

At times I would encounter cities. Sometimes there were tall giants that towered above me in the sky. Their gray faces reflected my lithe form as I moved. The others I saw in the windows of those machines did not look at each other. Everyone seemed to hurry. They were all faceless.

There were some places where people strolled. On their foreheads they wore books. As they would encounter one another their novels would either grow or shrink. Turning to pages to communicate. History. At times things were written as their gazes would meet. Those instances, everyone’s volumes shook and grew. A new chapter. All eyes were gray.

Other places were more primitive. Yet, each differing location had the same longing. All those humans searching for the same thing. It is often amusing to me to see them trying to reach it and find it as they see fit. Some, try through the silence of their books. Others through those black cases attached to their hands. Some were climbing, day after day. All trying and trying. Many looking for those answers.

To what?

Never knowing.

And how we search.

Painted

 She walked, a work of art. Painted from her skin to her very bone. She was colored. A pastel. The landscape seemed to move for her, and not her for it. Often she would pause and the world would be at a standstill, holding its breath, waiting. Her eyes were the eyes that saw everything. Her skin felt the secrets man had hidden. Whispers rose in the air and with each hushed word, she changed accordingly.

An invisible string tugs upward. My limp arm flies forward and out. My head, hanging, long brown hair a shield about my face. Each time it tugs I feel myself moving.

I am driven by a singular force. I feel gears shifting and changing.

Time ticks by.

The wheels are turning.  I am caught inside of myself.

I am with me and me with myself is inevitable. I was given to myself and myself was given to my actions.

Up I am pulled, sideways I go. The lines are there. They fell from the sky and attached long ago.  Sinking talons into my skin.

They are silent. I feel spiders that crawl along the lines. I walk a rope that is taught.

Don’t look down.

On either side of me is darkness.

A  singular light, shining.

I remain un-bitten.

My bodies shivers as I feel the whisper of their legs on my neck.

I dare not breath, fearing the venom.

Darkness.

How it pulls me.

Falling.

I am caught.

I feel their hooks in my skin as I hang limply.

From my eyes escape one small tear.

The dance begins. Moved, going through practiced motions.

Wanting to work against it.

How fluid I look. As beautiful as a ballerina. Dipping to and fro, feet moving soundlessly across the floor. The wind whirls around me, spinning about. My hair whispers across my face.

This is a performance.

There are more actions…

How I am pulled.

How I am moved.

Silk Cascade

I can’t explain to you how it felt. I realize, even if you experienced the things that I have, you wouldn’t understand them in the same way that I do. I live my life behind a great wall. As I said before, these things sound very odd but it is true. This wall is something that you cannot see. Even more so, I am an individual that is not visible.

Let me explain a bit further.

There have been times in my life when others have caught a glimpse of me. Those instances were rare. I was only noticed because I was what the person needed at the time.

Confused?

It is okay if you are.

It may seem like a terrible thing to only be seen when needed, but, really, it isn’t so bad. At least I know beyond a shadow of a doubt  that I am helping someone.

But there are times…

When I feel sad. I would like to brush shoulders with a stranger and have them FEEL it. To make eye contact with them and murmur softly… “Sorry…”

A small thing. To be touched. What would it feel like to have my skin brush against someone else? Glass on Glass. Silk cascading softly, lightly. Stirred on the inside.

What would it feel like to be loved? To be noticed? Unconditionally. What would it feel like to make eye contact with that one person and see desire burning deep and bright in their eyes?

What would it be like….

Wishing doesn’t make it so.

For now, I will keep wandering. Unnoticed.

Just Dust

And we are just dust formed and walking… Taking this air in gingerly and losing our selves daily. It isn’t so much that we aren’t people, as much as it is that we all aren’t whole. Little things happen, the axes come along. That which is cut off is turned into kindling. Meant to be burned. Ashes cast into oblivion.

Though these things may be small, they become large and loom as silently as the wind whispering through time. It isn’t anything that is new.  Every minute  a second is counted off and a notch is made. A piece relinquished to the ages.

That which is left behind is something that can be learned from. It is something that can be uncovered, unwrapped, and given. In time it is molded, shaped, and formed.  Patience.

These Are Just Words

These are just words. And I am the author. They stretch before me heavy. Their weight is something we all carry but perhaps do not notice. Through the years we are trained and conditioned to bear them. There is nothing that is more of a burden. There is nothing that is as light. Yet we all have them. Perhaps it is just as well. Something that is binding. It is the mortar of which we stand and are held together.

I assure you on that day there was no one more unsuspecting than I. Of course, that is usually how it goes. As humans we often do not think of the possibilities a blank page holds. That day everything stretched before me. It was average enough. The coffee burned my pink tongue and I didn’t notice. The warm spray scalded my porcelain skin and it felt like air. Motions. Actions. Routine. What more is there to do? Sameness. The door slammed behind me, resounding and echoing.

It was there I saw him, sitting on the street corner. Blank eyes, a cardboard sign painted. The black letters weighed it down. I walked on. Not bothering with him. I never did. Yet there he sat, every morning in that spot. To the world he was a speck, to me, invisible.

Small puffs of ice raced out of my mouth as I breathed out. The gray sky fell down around me. The sound of cars flew by and I continued. My feet hitting the ground sure and heavy. I traveled like that for many days. I encountered more blank eyes and signs with their words. Each time I did, my feet grew heavier. They were blocks of cement. But I grew stronger. Up and up I climbed. Closer to where I wanted to go. The air around me changed. Sometimes filled with smoke, other times with ash. Red sky, grey, and black. The ice poured from my mouth. Silence screamed.

I sat at the top and looked around me. A wasteland painted with heavy words of black looked back me. Though they said everything, it meant nothing to me. Everything was so dry. The words shivered and moved, whispering. I heard none of it. Tilting my head back small drops of rain fell. After it was over I saw a blank canvas.

Vacillate

It wasn’t necessarily that she wasn’t good at anything… It was just, she wasn’t really great at anything. There is a difference between being really good and actually great. It seemed and felt like everyone else fell into the great or good category and that she fell through the cracks. Falling like a grain of sand, unseen only to land in the sea of sameness. A place where nothing is unique, including herself. Oh there had been times through the years where the random passerby would stop, pat her on the shoulder and nod their approval. A simple nod. A physical touch. But not words. Words. They were the life giving nectar that she craved but rarely received. To admit this to anyone is something that she would never do. To admit it to herself was almost harder.